


He's a Knockout

by nerdistheword



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I made myself cry with my own goddamn words, I named the humdrum henry and made him simon's little brother, I slipped professor minos in here, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Explicit Sex, Trans Man Niall, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, also I gave simon tattoos, aro/ace Agatha Wellbelove, bad descriptions of fighting, baz dealing with his feelings, because fuck yeah this is my fic, but what else is new, completed work, davy is a real piece of shit here, dev and niall are together and they live to annoy baz into happiness, dev is chaotic good, does my humanized humdrum count as an oc?, ebb is simon and henry's foster mom, i made canon my bitch, i put margaret from wayward son in here because i love her, lit major baz, lots of pining, niall is chaotic neutral, no beta because idk how to get one, no magic, penny and agatha are roommates, punk!niall, simon and baz kiss A LOT, simon bakes and gardens, simon dealing with his feelings, simon just really likes baz, some blood, some violence, streetfighter simon, sweet tender lovestruck boys, terfs can fight me ive had this headcanon forever, they are all just trying to find their ways, together they are just pure chaos, warning: mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 143,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21579718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdistheword/pseuds/nerdistheword
Summary: Simon Snow Salisbury is a streetfighter who is sick of fighting but just can't bring himself to leave the ring.Baz is the spectator that falls for him on the spot, and Simon isn't far behind.A modern au filled with familiar faces, with some twists added in.
Relationships: Dev/Niall (Simon Snow), Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 246
Kudos: 489





	1. Dukes Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first alternate universe and my first multi-chaptered fic! Hope ya'll like it, it's been in my head for a while. Chapters will be posted as often as I can crank them out.

**Baz**

I mill about the crowd in a state of being completely pissed off and totally miserable. The soles of my expensive shoes stick just the slightest bit to the ground wherever I take a step, and the music blasting from speakers set up in corners and against walls is vibrating relentlessly in my chest cavity and making my eardrums hurt. The dim light and smoky air make it hard to see anyone’s faces without being uncomfortably close to them. I don’t want to be within five feet of any of the people I am currently surrounded by, but here we are.

I am going to murder my idiot cousin for bringing me to this disgusting place. As soon as I find him. If I can find him.

This place isn’t hard to navigate on paper—it’s all one big circle, with a shitty raised boxing ring in the middle—but it is so packed with people I can’t tell which way I’m going or where I am from where I came in. The space reeks of sweat and liquor and nicotine, and the last scent wouldn’t be so terrible if I wasn’t trying to quit smoking, per my stepmother’s wishes. It makes me even more cross. I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes wandering around this one room, searching fruitlessly for my idiot cousin.

He dragged me here. I wanted to go to the club and play tennis or swim a few laps in the pool, but _no,_ Dev wanted to live in the edge. Dev wanted to be a rebel and go against what any sane person in our social circle would. And because I am plagued by boredom, I agreed. Dev carved out this evening to take me to an _underground street-fighting match._ It’s being held in this disgusting basement underneath an equally disgusting bar, which we had to walk through to get down here. How he even learned the details of such an event, I have no clue. He promised I would enjoy it and begged me to come. Then as soon as we made it here, he ditched me to go do who knows what.

I am by myself, viscerally uncomfortable, way outside of my element, and some drunk person just threw up two inches from my feet, and when I jump backwards to avoid the bile, I bump into a very large, very sweaty, and very unattractive man who leers at me. I am wearing one of my favorite shirts—the dark red one with the shiny black floral print—and I’ll probably have to burn it now. Who knows how many disgusting diseases and bacteria are being passed around in this grimy place? And it’s like every second the indiscernible music gets louder, and the crowd keeps pressing in on me like quicksand. It’s hard to breathe, to think.

Dev is a fucking dead man when I find him.

I must look murderous, because suddenly the throngs of people who seemed to be intent on crushing me a moment ago are parting like I just shot fire from my eyes. I look around me, anger forgotten for a second because what are they all looking at? Suddenly the dim mood lighting changes to something brighter, the low yellow bulbs switching off so the industrial LED lights hanging from the ceiling can beam to life, brighter around the center of the room and slowly fading on the outer rings of the circle.

People are starting to shout and cheer, jumping up and down like they’re at a concert. I stand still for a second, trying to figure out what they’re chanting, what’s causing them to go so mental. A light tap on my shoulder startles me enough that I flinch, and I turn around to the source of the gentle touch with an undignified gasp because—

Blue.

Blue and gold and bronze and broad and rosy-cheeked man, standing right in front of me, in a plain white tee shirt so tight it should be illegal, and a pair of loose gym shorts and faded trainers. Blue, unremarkable eyes that should be easily looked over, but Crowley they are _not._ And he’s got broad, muscular shoulders and thick, defined arms and perfect golden skin flecked with equally perfect moles. His jaw is square and his pink, _pink_ lips are tilted into a sheepish and kind of amused grin. His red cheeks push into his unforgettable blue eyes. His hair is a bronze color, buzzed close to his skull, and it makes him look like a delinquent but doesn’t take away from how ungodly handsome he is.

That’s when I realize that his boy is talking to me, saying words with his beautiful mouth.

“Um, er, could I get past you, mate? I have a match.” He says in an accent so terrible even my stone-faced father would cringe. He’s definitely not where I’m from.

And I’m nodding like a complete moron, because I certainly haven’t forgotten what words are, I definitely know what this gorgeous sunshine boy is talking about.

_I am. Still. Standing. In front of him._

My rational brain is screaming terrible profanities at me. I am better than this. I am Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, for fuck’s sake. I am highly educated and well-mannered and a perfectly eloquent and intelligent person, I should be able to say something to him, or better yet, get my sorry gay arse out of his way.

But I don’t. It’s like I want to stand in his light as long as possible. And he’s still looking at me, waiting for me to move. His bronze, irritatingly unkempt brows are pulled together in confusion. But he’s still smiling, a little. I can’t decide if that’s good or not.

“All right?”

This is like one of those nightmares when something awful is happening, but your mind is disconnected from your body and you can’t move or speak or do anything to fix the situation. This is a real-life nightmare. I am standing in front of over a hundred people, looking at the most attractive man I have ever seen in my life, and my mouth won’t work, my legs won’t work, nothing is working, it’s like this man has shut all my normal functions down.

The man seems less amused and more worried now. The crowd is getting antsy, shouting something I can’t focus on. He almost makes my knees buckle when he puts his warm hand on my shoulder and gently moves me aside so he can get by. I move like I’m underwater, and I’m still staring in wide-eyed awe at him, like I’m a child seeing a Christmas tree lit up for the first time.

“Uh, bye.” He says hesitantly and walks past me like he didn’t just destroy any previous standards I held about what the perfect man would look like.

It’s only after I’m not standing directly in his glowing path that I am able to breathe and have cognizant thought again. The world comes back in an overwhelming rush that seems inconsequential to what I just experienced.

I realize all the people are chanting, _“Snow! Snow! Snow!”_

What the man said about a match comes back to me, and I realize that his name must be Snow. Snow the streetfighter. The incomparably beautiful Snow. The one I made an absolute fool of myself in front of. I shove my face into my hands, glad now that the crowd has closed back in around me, nobody paying me any attention.

I looked like the world’s biggest moron in front of him! I couldn’t even gather the mind to get out of his way! If he even bothers to remember our stunted encounter, it’ll be in nothing but bland amusement. The only lasting impression I made was one of utter stupidity.

I hate myself. I have an apparent weakness for gorgeous men like Snow. Never again will I mock Dev for crushing on any mildly attractive human he meets.

Speaking of my cousin…I catch a glimpse of him a few feet ahead of me, on one of the front lines of people crowding near the ring where the match is going to take place. I march up to Dev, fully ready to verbally destroy him for abandoning me in this wretched place, but when I get up next to him and consequentially get a good view of the ring, I get a little…distracted.

Snow is getting ready to fight.

He’s bouncing around on the balls of his feet in the near center of the circle and rolling his shoulders. He lifts his glorious arms over his head and clasps his hands together, and then he leans, stretching from one side to the other, and his shirt lifts up and I’m almost blinded by a sliver of golden skin above his hips. Crowley, his shorts are riding low. He has an adorable bit of chub on his stomach, but he’s still so sturdy and muscular and all in all built like a god. His shorts are tragically loose around his thighs, but I can still faintly see the shape of his thick, muscular thighs beneath them.

He cracks his knuckles and then reaches into his shorts pocket to take two pink-tinted balls of cloth and start methodically wrapping them around his hands. That’s when I notice his tattoos. How I fucking missed them in the first place is beyond me. I must have been blinded by his face and literally _everything else about him._

He has tattoo sleeves on both his muscular arms, from his elbows to his wrists. I can’t make them out from where I’m standing, but they’re vibrantly colorful, like stained glass on his skin. I wonder what it would be like to have those arms wrapped around me. Crowley, it would probably feel like having the universe cradling me. (Does he have more tattoos?)

Instead of chewing out Dev like he deserves, the prat, I ask him an embarrassingly breathless question. “Who’s that?”

Dev looks up from his cell phone and answers me promptly when he sees I’m looking at Snow. “That’s Simon Snow, one of the best fighters they have. He’s Niall’s favorite. A real loose cannon, I hear.”

Ah. Niall. The reason Dev is obsessed with this scene in the first place, why he’s trying so pathetically to be something he’s not. Niall is some boy Dev has a terrible crush on. He says Niall is from “the streets” and lives for this kind of underground entertainment. He’s probably somewhere in this gathering of delinquents too. Knowing Dev, he’ll find Niall soon and once again I will be the third wheel. Dev conveniently bringing dates to wherever we decide to go out is an annoyingly common occurrence. I’ve never met this so-called enchanting Niall, but I’ve heard enough about him from Dev just this week to last a lifetime.

But back to _my_ ridiculous infatuation.

“Loose cannon?”

“Snow’s hook is what they call ‘going off.’ Guy goes completely mental when the mood hits him right. Niall says he’s a bloody animal in the ring. He’s put a couple blokes in the hospital.” Dev says. He takes a swig from his strong-smelling drink.

I look at Snow again. Simon. Inhumanly attractive Simon Snow. I suddenly understand why Dev is throwing himself so passionately into this. If Niall makes Dev react like Snow does me, I can’t blame him for pretending he’s a low-class street urchin to get closer to the object of his affections.

Since Dev met Niall, he’s taken on this insufferable thuggish persona. Dev is my cousin from the Grimm side of my family, the son of my father’s brother. He’s a snobbish prat by blood and pretending to be otherwise doesn’t suit him. I have told him this multiple times, but my observations are only met by Dev’s special brand of obstinance. Talking to my cousin logically is comparable to conversing with a brick wall. To save myself the headache, I usually keep my opinions to myself. (Also because Dev is a terrible chatterbox, and a snitch on top of that—which is why I came out to him last, something he’s still sore about, since we both happen to be “the queer ones.”)

The anticipative energy buzzing through the room ramps up when Snow’s competitor makes his appearance.

The man is _huge_. He’s got a good decade in age on Snow, and practically towers over him. His wide shoulders and beefy, hair-covered arms almost make Snow look fragile in comparison. It takes a lot to intimidate me, but if I had to face this man in a hand-to-hand fight? Well, it would be a very, very short fight.

But Snow doesn’t look the least bit worried about his chances. In fact, he grins up at the bear-like man and offers his hand out to shake, lips mouthing words I can’t hear on account of everyone around me shouting at the top of their lungs. The bear-man solemnly takes Snow’s hand. They shake, and then the announcer or referee of some kind comes into the circle, a shitty microphone in his hand.

“Thanks for coming down tonight everyone! I’ll skip the crowd-playing, because the lineup we have tonight speaks for itself! First on the docket, we’ve got the explosive Simon Snow, a returning competitor, and certainly a fan favorite.” Cheers go up around the room, and Snow actually _blushes_ , rubs his neck sheepishly and smiles at the crowd. He fucking waves his other hand in the same bashful manner. I think the worst part about him—aside from being disgustingly cute—is that he’s just being himself. He’s not putting on a show. His face is an open book. I wonder if he’s capable of deceit.

I’m so busy watching his beautiful face that I miss the announcer introducing the other bloke. The light catches Snow’s plain blue eyes, his square jaw casts a shadow over his long, gorgeous neck in the bright lights. He’s got moles on his neck, I know that from being up close to him, but I can’t see them from where I’m standing. But he has a very showy Adam’s apple, which I can see on full display as someone from the front line of the crowd hands him a water bottle. He takes a long drink from it—the production of him swallowing should be illegal—and passes it back to the person with a smile that just about knocks me off my feet.

He wipes that perfect pink mouth with the back of his hand and returns to the center of the ring as the announcer sets up the rules for the fight.

“All right, fellas. No biting, no hair-pulling, no eye-gouging, no spitting. You know the drill. First man down on the ground for more than fifteen seconds loses, last man standing wins.” Snow and his large opponent nod, and the announcer backs out of the ring.

I swallow nervously and look over at Dev. On his other side, with Dev’s arm wrapped around his waist, is a boy who must be Niall, cheering happily along with the crowd. “How is this considered a fair fight? That man is enormous.” I shout at Dev.

Dev shrugs, looks over to Niall, taps his side to get his attention. He repeats the question, nodding over to me. Niall smirks when he looks at me. He’s taller than Dev but not quite as tall as me, with artfully messy red hair and mischievous bright hazel eyes. He’s fit I suppose, lean with smooth pale skin and a wide, charming grin. But he quite literally pales in comparison to Snow.

“Just wait and watch, mate. Snow’s a fucking beast.” He assures me.

 _Beast or not,_ I think as I watch Snow and the big man start to circle around each other, _on paper this is bad._

Over the shouting and music, an air horn blares loudly, signaling the fight to begin.

Right away, the big man lunges to tackle Snow to the ground, and I instinctively gasp—but Snow just…isn’t where he was a second ago.

I blink, because he’s on the other side of the ring now, arms up in a fighting stance of some sort, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a video game character. His opponent swings around and throws a punch with his enormous meaty fist. Snow sidesteps it, and I realize that he’s not fast, exactly. He’s decisive.

There’s no hesitance to his movements. He just does what he does. He’s fluid and powerful and never falters in this graceful, dangerous dance. I know nothing about fighting like this. My skills are more geared toward reading and writing and playing the violin. But Snow is good at this, I can tell that much. Niall was somewhat right; Snow’s a beast in a fight—strong and instinctual and unyielding—, but I can’t see where he might be considered a loose cannon. Everything he does is obviously not choreographed, but there isn’t a broken-loose wildness to it. I suppose he’s not in the mood to “go off,” and I’m almost disappointed by it. I wonder what he’d look like if he went completely feral, but right now he’s fascinating enough as it is.

Snow’s eyes are bright, and his expression is so focused and intent on his opponent I’m close to being jealous, which is so many different kinds of ridiculous I’m not going to go into it.

The big man hasn’t quite landed a hit on Snow, but Snow has gotten a few good licks in, though he’s obviously on the defensive. I think he’s trying to tire the big man out, make him run circles around the ring to try and catch him so he’ll be easier to take down when the time comes.

From my side, I hear Niall sigh dramatically. He’s pressed from shoulder to hip with Dev now, pouting. “This is boring.” He complains. “Snow’s no fun unless he’s foaming at the mouth. He’s playing with his food.”

We all look up to where Snow is continuously evading attacks from his opponent, who is growing more and more agitated with every missed swing. Snow doesn’t seem to take any satisfaction from frustrating the man. He just keeps moving, never staying in one place for too long. It’s like a fight scene from a high-budget action film. Snow’s movements are so attuned to what his opponent is doing that it looks staged, the way he weaves around attempts to be pinned and fluidly dodges fists.

I’m absolutely gobsmacked by this. By Snow. But it seems the rest of the audience shares Niall’s opinion. They look restless. They want a real, gritty fight, not this practical and agile evasion Snow is putting on. The shouting and cheers have died down to a more subdued rumble as everyone waits for something more.

The big man has paused in his efforts to get Snow. He braces his hands on his knees and catches his breath on the opposite side of the ring from Snow, who is still putting on that fighting stance with his arms up in front of his face and chest.

In this brief moment of peace, Snow’s plain blue eyes dart out over the crowd and then somehow find and stop on _me_. I know he’s looking at me when we lock gazes, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I worry if my hair looks okay, if my shirt is messed up from all this activity. I’m too surprised to school my face into the bored expression adopted from my father, the one that Dev calls my “Feelings Mask.” I’m looking at him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, because he’s just so beautiful. I can tell that he’s noticed we’re looking at each other too when his fighting stance loosens just a bit.

He breaks eye contact for a moment to look the rest of me over—not in a lewd way (though I wouldn’t mind that whatsoever), but in a sweet, appreciative way that makes me inexplicably warm inside—and I internally pray to literally anyone listening that I look even a small percentage as cool and polished as I did when I left my flat. Then his eyes are back on mine, and he starts to smile that earth-shattering smile, when— _CRACK_.

The first real hit of the night explodes the moment.

Snow goes flying into the ropes behind him from a ruthless punch to his cheek the big man threw when Snow’s guard was down. And the crowd. Fucking. _Roars_.

I see Snow’s body crumpled against the ropes as he tries to stay upright, and I suddenly hate every single person in this place infinitely more than I did before.

The big man steps back, obviously expecting Snow to collapse after a heavy hit like that, but it doesn’t happen.

Instead, Snow rights himself, gripping the ropes for support, and touches a careful hand to his cheek, which is bright red and well on its way to bruising. The skin under his eye where it meets his cheekbone is already purpling. He works his jaw slowly, winces a little, and he seems okay—there’s this look in his eyes…resigned? Tired? —, but then the man pushes him back down by his shoulders, hard.

Snow hits the ground this time, and before he can even start to get back up, the man kicks him viciously in the stomach. The crowd continues to lose their fucking minds, but all I can focus on is Snow, silently crying out and curling in on himself defensively. He looks so small, there on the floor of the ring. I almost wish he’d stay down for fifteen seconds. But no.

While the other man is practically waltzing around the ring, enjoying the crowd’s attention—prick—Snow hauls himself to his feet and…

And something is…different. Wrong. Something is wrong. His eyes aren’t bright anymore, he’s not bouncing around anymore. He looks not just angry, but dangerous. There’s a footprint on his white shirt. It sends a cold shock down my spine, this change in Snow. He goes back into his stance, fists clenched so tightly his arms are shaking.

I hear Nialls’ voice through the still-roaring crowd. “Now we’re going to get a show.”

Then Simon Snow _goes off._ He’s not evading attacks anymore. He’s a white and bronze blur. The fluid movement from before is still there, but instead of that enchanting grace it’s just brutal assaults of flying fists and feet, and I think I see him actually headbutt the other man so hard there’s an audible crack of skulls clashing together. Snow’s knees and elbows jab into whatever soft, vulnerable parts the big man has. He grabs the big man’s arm, lowers his shoulder and tackles him to the ground like a charging bull.

The big man is too slow and large, too unprepared or inadequate in the face of this sudden violence to get more than a few feeble hits in—which Snow doesn’t even reel back a centimeter from—and attempt to protect his face.

Snow doesn’t stop when he has his opponent pinned. He just keeps swinging. Blow after blow. The big man is out cold in under three minutes of Snow’s torrent, most of which involved fists slamming into the big man’s face like large, powerful raindrops.

The screams and cheers are next to deafening as air horns blow and the announcer dips back into the ring to declare the big man out cold and announce Snow as the winner. He tries to grab Snow’s hand to lift it into the air in victory, but Snow shrugs out of his hold as he stands up.

He’s standing in the middle of the ring in front of the giant man he just brought down, chest heaving so heavily I can see his pecs and collarbones straining against his shirt with the effort.

His head is hung low. His fists are unclenched, hanging loosely by his sides. I can’t see his eyes, but I guess he’s staring at all the blood. Because how could he not be? There’s blood everywhere. Gushing from the unconscious man’s face onto the ring floor, smeared on Snow’s arms and shirt, dripping from his hands. There’s so much of it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much outside of a person’s body. I can’t focus too much on it or I’ll get sick or faint.

I can’t look at the hellish mess of bruises and blood on the swollen lump of a head belonging to Snow’s defeated opponent. In a terrifying moment, I wonder if Snow has killed the man, but as several people haul his beaten body out of the ring, they check his pulse and declare him alive. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and as I breathe back in, I can smell the blood so strongly I can almost taste it in the back of my throat. It makes me want to gag.

Beside me, Niall is chatting excitedly to Dev about his favorite move Snow did just now, and did you see that he dislocated the guy’s shoulder?

I feel sick. When I look back up at the rink, Snow is gone, and I can’t see where he went.

Dev claps me on the shoulder and nods to the stairs we came down from. Some people are already heading up them, but plenty of others are still milling about. There’s going to be another fight, I think. Even if Snow isn’t in it, I don’t think I could stomach it.

So when Dev grins at me and says, “Drinks?” I just nod and follow him back upstairs to the shitty bar. It’s brighter than downstairs, and the air is a little clearer, but I still hate it. One side of the room is dominated by the bar itself, which is crowded with patrons and manned by tough-looking bartenders serving cheap booze. The rest of the room is occupied by assorted tables and a few worn couches. A beat-up television suspended in one corner plays a low-quality football game. I make myself focus on that while Dev and Niall pick a table up against the wall.

“I’ll go get us a round.” Dev says, then goes to shove his way up to the bar.

The last thing I expect Niall to do is turn to me and start up conversation. We’ve never met before, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of person to make small talk. He kind of reminds me of my aunt Fiona, with his leather jacket and heavy Doc Martens boots and ripped jeans. Cliché.

“So, Baz, Dev says you play football.” Niall says, leaning on his elbows propped up on the table. He’s about my height—so, taller than Dev—and his features are very sharp and eye-catching. His hazel eyes are lined with dramatic black eyeliner, and his neatly trimmed fingernails are painted a dark purple. Yes, Fiona would like him.

I decide to be polite, even though Dev’s boyfriends and girlfriends never tend to be around for long. (Not because Dev is terrible, it’s just that his taste in partners tends to be.)

“For university, yes.” I answer stiffly. I might be a better conversationalist if I wasn’t in this place. If I could blink without seeing Snow, standing with bloody fists and his head down in the middle of that ring behind my eyelids.

Niall grins, and I can’t tell if his lips are that red naturally, or if he’s wearing lipstick. “This isn’t really your scene, is it?”

His observation catches me off guard enough that I shake my head and say, “No, not really.” Usually, when I have free time outside of football practice and coursework I read or play my violin. Those activities are private. I hardly go out unless I’m going to class or practice or shopping. Dev and Fiona and occasionally my stepmother drag me out to more social endeavors.

Niall’s grin gets wider and he laughs a little. “It’s not Dev’s either. It’s cute that he tries though.”

I don’t have a response to that, but luckily Dev himself comes back with three beers he slides onto the table. I hate beer, but I take a miniscule sip of the rancid stuff, then put it back down on the table. Dev will drink it when he finishes his.

Dev wipes his mouth and sets his drink down. “All right, fellas. What do we want to do next? The night is still young.”

“There are more fights scheduled, but none of the lineups are any good. We could go dancing, maybe?” Niall suggests.

My idiot cousin opens his mouth, probably to say, _“Yes, Niall, let’s go dancing. We’ll dance all night and keep Baz away from his comfortable bed for as long as possible,”_ but then Niall nudges him excitedly and nods over in the direction of the bar.

“Dev, _look!”_ He murmurs, subtly pointing at something. I don’t pay attention. I’ve got my phone in my hand, I’m checking my email, mentally anywhere else but here until Niall urgently adds, “It’s Snow!”

My head jerks up so quickly from my phone screen that I’m surprised I didn’t give myself whiplash. I look to where Niall is pointing and yes, there he is. Simon Snow. Now with an oversized hooded sweatshirt and a worn duffle bag over his shoulder. He’s talking to a bartender. The man hands him a wad of cash and Snow stuffs it unceremoniously into his gym shorts pocket, then turns in the direction of the door, his blue eyes trained on the ground. Some people around him recognize him from downstairs and talk to him. Congratulating him on the victory, I assume. He accepts a few pats on the back and handshakes with a tight smile that’s definitely not as open and warm as it was not even an hour ago.

I’m staring. Very obviously and very helplessly and so, so embarrassingly. At Snow’s muscular calves, at his golden Adam’s apple and the moles on his neck. At his blue, blue eyes. Niall notices. Niall notices, and with a wide, shit-eating grin he just _calls Snow over._

“Oi, Snow! Good fight!”

I decide that I’m going to bury Niall right next to Dev. They deserve each other, the pricks. I give Niall one of my most scorching death glares, the kind that gets most people to back off, but he just winks. Dev laughs and I’m thinking about how exactly I’m going to murder them when Snow looks up at the sound of his name and sees Niall waving him over. He apparently feels obligated to come over for some ungodly reason, because he’s heading our way—is he that appreciative of his fans? Is he just incredibly sociable?

Snow stops at our table and smiles that tired smile at Niall—Crowley, even his low effort smiles are gorgeous somehow—and nods at me and Dev. His eyes go a bit wide when he sees me, but he still smiles. I don’t smile back—I’m trying very hard to keep my face impassive. And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I think his smile gets a bit brighter when he looks at me, and his eyes slide down my form in that sweet appreciative way again. Then his smile falters a bit when he looks back at my face and he looks away from my gaze at the ground again. I feel like I was very briefly given the world and then it was just as quickly taken away. It’s dizzying.

“Hey. Uh, thanks. For coming.” He says in Niall’s direction, still looking at the ground. His voice is low, but earnest.

“Of course. You’re so good. I try to make it to all your matches. It’s great to finally meet you.” Niall says. He’s genuinely delighted to meet Snow, and also very obviously happy to make me uncomfortable in the process. No wonder Dev likes him.

“I’m Niall, and these are my friends Dev and Baz. They’d never been to a fight before today, can you believe?”

Snow reaches up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly and I see the split skin over his knuckles. He’s washed the blood off of him since the fight, obviously, but I can still smell it on is skin. I wonder what he smells like when he hasn’t just emerged from a fight. He notices me staring at his torn-up hands and quickly stuffs them both into his sweatshirt pockets, eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment of panicked blue.

“Er, yeah. Well, um,” Snow clears his throat. He’s outrageously attractive, but not very eloquent. “Thanks for coming out. I’ve got to go, uh,” His eyes dart up and meet mine again, just for a second. His golden cheeks turn pink, and he abruptly turns to go. “Bye,” he calls as he swiftly exits the bar. His broad shoulders are great for clearing a path. That, and the fact that he just beat the shit out of a man twice his size.

We watch him go, and when the squeaky door of the bar shuts behind him, Niall tilts his head thoughtfully to the side and frowns. “Huh. Not a very talkative bloke, is he? Nice arse though.”

I agree, completely—though “nice” seems too plain a word to describe the perfection that is Snow’s arse—but I whip my head around to face Niall and glare at him again. He just laughs, the tosser.

Dev frowns at me. “You should have asked for his number, Baz. I think he likes you.”

I sneer at him, feeling like I’m inside my own body for the first time since I saw Snow. “As if. He couldn’t even spit out a complete sentence, Dev. I couldn’t possibly be with a moron like that.”

“You weren’t looking at him like he was a moron.” Niall says snidely into his half-empty glass. Dev snorts unattractively.

Heat floods my face and I glare at them harder. “You’re mistaken. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I will be retiring for the evening.”

I muster whatever dignity I have left—based on Niall’s smug grin, it’s not much—and leave the bar. Later, I tell Dev that he is never taking me to that place again.

I don’t expect to lay eyes on Snow ever again after that. I try to convince myself that it’s for the best.


	2. Tired of Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we get a look into Simon's life.

**Simon**

I used to like fighting, when I was younger. It was easier than talking or making friends. It was a way to get the aimless energy that buzzed around inside of me in the homes out from under my skin. It was how I protected my brother, so he didn’t have as rough of a time in the homes as I did.

Fighting was necessary in order to survive my childhood. And when I first got the underground fighting gig last year, I was pleased because it’s something I’m good at. I thought it’d be easy money. And it was, at first. It’s still a decent amount of income. On top of my other job at the shop, I make enough money to help Ebb pay for groceries and rent with some left over to go towards Henry’s school supplies and clothes.

Now, fighting is starting to feel ill-suited for me. I don’t _have_ to do it anymore. There aren’t other boys threatening to jump my little brother in his sleep.

Lately, I’ve been getting tired of hitting and being hit. I hate it when I _go off_ and my brain blinks out and I come out of it with an unconscious stranger underneath me and blood in my mouth that isn’t always mine. Afterwards, I feel like my insides have been scraped raw when I go through fights like that.

But I’m good at it. And it makes me enough money to buy Henry new pairs of shoes when he needs them or help pay for medicine when he gets sick.

So I fight every other weekend and the occasional weeknight. Even though the bruises on my arms and face make Ebb frown and get teary-eyed. Even though the blood crusted under my fingernails makes Penny worry.

Because I’ve always had to fight. And I’ve got no other plans for what to do with myself. And I want to start putting money away for Henry’s future, for whatever he decides to do when he’s older.

It’s just that tonight’s fight was especially rough. Every part of me aches. That kick to my stomach knocked the breath out of me for a solid half minute, and the bruise is purple and dark green and throbs with a passion. No broken ribs, though. And no signs of internal bleeding either. I’m lucky that bloke wasn’t wearing steel-toed boots. (Which is against the rules but happens occasionally.)

My right cheek and eye are swollen from that blindsiding punch, and that won’t be easy to hide. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a hit like that. Two hits.

I got…distracted.

That man with the dark hair and reddish-brown skin…he was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I think he thought I was fit too for a minute there, when I bumped into him before the fight, and then when our eyes met just before I was knocked down. He looked at me like I was something he wanted to eat…or like he wanted to fight me…or like he was baffled by my very existence. He was hard to read. But I think he liked me. (I hoped he liked me.)

Until he watched me go off like a monster and beat a man until he was unconscious. That definitely took the shine off any budding attraction there. It’s just like me to do that, really. Just completely ruin whatever good things people think of me. Penny says I’m too hard on myself, but she’s never come to one of my fights (Says it’s uncivilized, and I’m inclined to agree sometimes). She’s never seen what I do in the ring.

That beautiful man did though. He was probably close enough to smell the blood. It’s no wonder he looked at me so coldly when I saw him after. I could most definitely read that look.

When I get home, it’s well after dark. Ebb is in bed; her bedroom door is closed and there’s no light peeking out from under it. Henry is sitting at the kitchen table with his head resting on his folded arms, face covered by his sleeve. That old, beat-up red rubber ball is loosely clutched in one of his hands. I put my bag down by the door and go to ruffle his hair and wake him up so he can get into bed.

It’s curly, like mine when I grow it out. It’s a little blonder too, like Mum’s was. I put my hand on his head and it jerks up, startling me. I thought he was asleep.

“Motherfu—” I almost swear but catch myself. Henry’s eyes narrow at me anyway. Blue, like mine. “I thought you’d dozed off. What’re you doing out here?” I ask him.

He sits up and crosses his arms over his chest. “I was waiting for you. Were you fighting again?” His voice is flat, but sleepy. I can see him fighting back a yawn.

It’s impossible to lie to Henry. He sees through everything, into everything. The kid is so clever that he even freaks Penny out sometimes. He’s always been like that, even when he was younger. He’s nine now, and I swear he gets sharper every day.

“Yeah, I was fighting. Come on, you should get to bed.” I don’t ever lie to Henry, and not just because he’d see right through me. He appreciates honesty. It’s the best way to get through to him and get him to open up. He prefers things to be told to him bluntly, and I’m shit with being subtle, so it works.

Henry gets up and lets me lead him to his room. He’s got his own, with a bed and a desk and everything, but most nights he ends up sleeping in my room. Neither of us likes to sleep with no one else in the room, and he gets nightmares. I do too, but his are different. Worse, maybe.

He’s already in his pyjamas—one of Ebb’s old shirts and flannel bottoms that I think used to be mine. He gets into his unmade bed no problem, but once I have the blankets pulled over him, he looks up at me sternly.

“When can I go to one of your fights?”

The idea of Henry seeing me like that, with blood on my hands…he’s seen me fight before, to defend and protect us in the homes, but what I do now is different. (I'm much bigger now. Stronger too.)

I do ruffle his hair now and manage to smile down at him. “It’s not a place meant for kids, Henry. How was school today?” I try to change the subject. Luckily, Henry lets it slide. He must be really tired.

“It was school.” He shrugs. The yawn he’s been valiantly holding back finally breaks out. I lean down and kiss his forehead gently.

“G’night Henry.”

He frowns at the kiss (He can keep frowning; I’m not letting him grow up starved for affection like I did after Mum died) but closes his eyes. “Night Simon.”

I shut off the lights and leave Henry’s door open a crack, then go shower. I mop the blood and sweat off me from fights with a wet rag before I leave the bar, but it’s not the same as a relaxing shower.

I take some pain pills, so my bruises won’t bother me so much when I sleep, and then climb into my own bed with a long groan.

Within minutes, Henry is slipping into my room. He nudges the door open and I close my eyes and smile just a little at the sound of his small feet scampering across my bedroom floor. Then, he climbs into my bed and nestles into the spot under my shoulder, tucked into my side. He doesn’t talk, and neither do I. It’s something we’re good at, not having to talk.

I think we fall asleep at the same time, but I wake up much earlier than him. I like to wake up early so I can eat breakfast and then have second breakfast later, when everyone else wakes up. I start making breakfast—eggs, toast, bacon. I think there are still some scones I baked earlier this week. I’ll heat those up and maybe start a new batch. I don’t have to go into work until nine.

Outside, the sky is brightening. It’s grey. Like that man’s eyes, but much less…captivating. The redhead I keep seeing around the bar and at fights—Niall—said that bloke’s name was Baz. I wonder if it’s short for something. Probably something posh. He looked posh. Way too posh to be in that place. Like Agatha. (Maybe Agatha knows him? She runs in posh circles.)

My mind keeps recalling little details about him. Baz. Like his severe widow’s peak, and his flowery shirt. (That was unbuttoned almost down to his navel, Jesus Christ.)

It’s no good, thinking about him. About Baz. I’m never going to see him again. (I wouldn’t even know where to _look_.) I shouldn’t care, I shouldn’t be thinking about him still. He didn’t say a word to me. He didn’t even look like he wanted to be there, when I saw him after the fight.

My knuckles are still stinging. I should wrap them up before I go to work, and before Ebb sees.

A sudden sleepy voice from behind me almost makes me crack an egg in my fist. I’m always jumpy after fights.

“Morning, Simon. Did you sleep well?” Ebb asks. I never hear her coming. She’s so gentle, so quiet. She doesn’t crash into things and make a ruckus like I do. And she doesn’t make subtle, repetitive noises with her movements like Henry does.

Ebb became Henry and I’s foster mother when I was sixteen and Henry was five. She’s the only one who didn’t send us right back as soon as she noticed Henry’s behavior problems and my tendency to get into fights. She didn’t run from our issues; she embraced them, and us, wholeheartedly. She let these two messed-up kids into her home and never sent us away. She loves us. She’s not quite a mum—nobody can be like my mum—but she cares. She helped make me realize I didn’t have to fight all the time and she softens Henry’s hard edges.

I turn around and see her there, already sat at the table, in her dressing robe decorated with fluffy sheep. Everything in the flat is goat or sheep or donkey or horse or cow themed. (We have throw pillows embroidered with goats in a flowery meadow.) Ebb grew up on a farm and loves animals. Sometimes we visit her family’s farm, out in the countryside. She works in the city now as some kind of livestock consultant.

She takes one look at my face and immediately gets up to rummage through the freezer for an icepack. Silently, with tears in her eyes, she hands it to me, wrapped in a dishtowel with cows on it. Ebb is always kind of weepy. Crying goes with almost all her emotions. Happy, sad, frustrated. (I’ve never seen her get truly angry.)

I take it with an apologetic smile and press it to my face. The swelling has gone down since last night, but I know it can’t be pretty.

“I know I’ve said it before, but…Simon, you don’t have to fight. We’re doing just fine. It’s not good for you.”

I turn back to the stove and flip the bacon. “I know. I just…” I don’t know what to do with myself. And if fighting is one thing I’m good at, then shouldn’t I keep doing it? Technically, I could leave the roster any time I wanted to. I could just not show up. It’s not like I’ve signed a contract. The people who run the ring don’t even know where I live. All they know is my name, and that I’m good. But there’s not much trust there. I only get paid after I fight. I guess they expect me to leave at any time.

But I just…I don’t.

Penny says I limit myself. That I get stuck in the same habits and work myself into a rut.

Maybe I do. I don’t know.

I finish cooking breakfast and put some tea on for us. Ebb flips on the radio and listens to a morning talk show she likes. Henry shuffles out of my room, rubbing his eyes. I give him a plate piled high with eggs and bacon and toast. I steal a piece of bacon and smile at him when he glares at me. I ruffle his hair and he starts eating. I put a glass of milk in front of his plate and then give Ebb her breakfast and tea. I always make a lot of food—between me and Henry, we can put away a lot. His love for food can be bigger than mine some days. (His metabolism is much faster, but his mood can dull his appetite.)

But this is a good morning. I scarf down a helping of eggs and bacon and then start on making some more scones. I’m so used to it now that I don’t even need to measure out the ingredients. I have them in the oven before Henry and Ebb have even gotten dressed for the day.

When I hear Henry’s rubber ball bouncing repetitively on his wall, I knock on his door and remind him that he has school and should be getting ready. The bouncing stops.

By seven thirty, the scones are out of the oven and on the cooling rack, Ebb’s tucked one in her mouth and another in her purse on her way to work, and Henry is impatiently waiting by the door, backpack strapped on his back, bouncing his ball in time with his tapping foot.

“Simon! I’m going to be late.” He glares at me as I hurriedly shove my feet into my trainers. “And you told _me_ to hurry up.”

I hand him his packed lunch as we walk out the door. “Yeah, yeah. You have your homework, right?”

He nods. Before I lock up the apartment, I look at him skeptically. “And it’s finished?”

Henry rolls his eyes. Penny taught him how to do that. “ _Yes,_ Simon. Can we go now?”

We leave our building and start walking towards Henry’s school. If it was raining, we’d take a bus, but the air is dry despite the sky being cloudy, so it’s walking for today.

“You have a bad bruise on your stomach.” Henry says suddenly. “I saw it when you were sleeping.”

I flinch without meaning to. Nobody was supposed to see that bruise. I rub the back of my neck guiltily. “I…last night’s fight wasn’t great. Also, watching me sleep is right creepy, Henry.”

“Did you win?” He asks uninterestedly. He learned _that_ from Agatha.

I wince, remembering breaking that guy’s nose under my fist, feeling his blood slick on my hands and hearing his shoulder dislocate. I won. Brutally.

“Yeah.” I don’t make eye contact with him. He knows I know that he knows I’m holding information back.

“So…” I try to change the subject, try to get him to open for once. “Have you made any new friends at school?”

I hate that I asked it that way. In order to have new friends, you need friends in the first place. And Henry’s never been good at making friends. Like me, he doesn’t talk all that much, but his silence is different than mine. Penny and Agatha and Ebb say I’m good company. That I’m comforting and warm and friendly. (Not to say I can’t be intimidating when I need to; but I’m never like that around them.)

Henry is a good kid. He’s not a bully. He’s just not very social. And he kind of…accidentally…causes problems. It’s just that he’s a good listener, very observant. And too clever and calculating for his own good. It’s all too easy for him to put two and two together, and then connect everything to everything else.

From how he’s explained it, and from what I’ve gathered from the various teachers and social workers and counselors he’s had over the years, Henry causes tensions to rise and boil over when he’s around people he doesn’t trust. He picks up bits of information from classmates—juvenile secrets, lies, rumors—and distributes them to the wrong people in an attempt to make friends, to get people to like him. And kids, being kids, get angry at each other. They fight.

I’m good at fighting, but Henry is really, _really_ good at starting them. So kids don’t like him, because he’s that kid who takes normal childish drama and makes it more vicious because he just knows too much and presses all the wrong buttons in people. And sometimes, he gets angry too. He gets spiteful. And causes problems on purpose, because if nobody wants to be friends with him, then why shouldn’t anyone else in his class have friends? He knows exactly how to needle at people’s insecurities, just by watching them, analyzing their behaviors. (Last year, he made his old teacher cry in the middle of lecture.)

He’s caused screaming matches on the playground, fights at lunchtime. Even when he was little and we were in the homes, he’d cause stuff like that.

Ebb got him a therapist, to help with his anger issues and everything else. But we still get calls from his principal. Though less than last year, definitely. So maybe there’s progress.

But he’s pretty much burned his bridges with every kid at his school. And a good amount of the school staff and administration.

Henry scowls at the ground and kicks a pebble on the sidewalk so it rolls into the road. “No. They hate me.”

I pull him into my side with my arm around his shoulders. “Hey, now. They don’t hate you, okay? They’ll come around. You’ve just got to be, er, more approachable.”

Now he scowls at me. “Simon, I’m not approachable.” The first few words are flat, but it gets louder and angrier as he goes on. “I’m the creepy kid that everyone hates because they’re too stupid to keep their mouths shut around me!”

I look down at him, startled. He only yells like that when—oh shit, he’s crying.

I steer us off the sidewalk and into the doorway of a shop that hasn’t opened yet. I crouch to be at Henry’s eye level and hold his little face in my hands. I push his long curls out of his eyes and look into them. I use the end of my shirt to dab the tears off his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” I try to get him to pay attention to me, but he’s in full-on meltdown mode. Chest-heaving sobs, tears streaming down his face, shaking with emotion.

My heart squeezes painfully for him. I slip his Darth Vader backpack off his shoulders and sling it over one of mine. I pull him into my arms and stroke his back until the worst of it dies down, whispering softly to him. “You’re okay, it’s okay.”

Then I lift him upwards, cradling him to my chest. He buries his overheated, wet face into my shirt, sniffling.

I start walking in the opposite direction of his school. “Simon?” Henry asks between shaky, uneven breaths.

“You wanna skip school today?”

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Won’t Ebb be mad?”

I kiss his forehead and laugh conspiratorially. “You think Ebb hasn’t skipped work before because she was sad? Besides, you’re as smart as Penny; you can handle to miss one day of school.”

Henry thinks this over—I can see him weighing logic in his mind. He nods and shrugs the best he can with me carrying him. “Fair enough. So where are we going?”

“We’re going to see the girls. Then, you can come to work with me or hang with them. I think Penny is going to the library today.”

He lets me carry him until we get to Penny and Agatha’s building. I put him down, and we go up to their flat. I knock on the door. They should be awake by now.

Agatha answers the door in her dressing robe, long blonde hair twisted above her head in a towel.

“Good morning, boys. You have your own flat, you know.” She sighs, but still steps aside to let us in. She pats Henry’s head fondly, then disappears into her room. I hear her hair dryer turn on.

The girls’ flat is always caught between clean and tastefully decorated (Agatha’s doing) and cluttered and a tad messy (Penny). There are bookshelves filled with Penny’s books and the occasional decorative vase and framed photo from Agatha. There’s the contrast between Agatha’s plush, stylish rug in the living room, and Penny’s textbooks and crumpled pages of thorough notes and pens scattered on it. That’s where she’s sprawled out, a pencil tucked in her curly dark bun, and a highlighter in her grasp as she studies a thick book.

She looks up when I drop Henry’s backpack on the ground by the door, and grins.

“Simon! And Henry? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

I shake my head deliberately at Penny, and she notices the tear tracks on Henry’s face. “Never mind. Hey, come here and look at this. What do you know about the laws of physics?”

Henry plops down next to her on the rug and they pore over her book. I flop onto Penny and Agatha’s sofa. It’s something Agatha picked out, so its posh and made of creamy leather that doesn’t yield to my form when I sit on it. But it’s a sofa. Sort of.

Agatha reemerges from her room a few minutes later. Hair in a perfect line down her back, fashionable outfit on, makeup done. She grabs her purse off the table at the end of the sofa and flicks back her hair.

“All right, guys. I’m off to class.” She focuses on me and frowns. “Oh, Simon. Your face. There’s concealer on my vanity. Bye, all.” She waves—I’m the only one who waves back, Penny and Henry are too busy talking about obscure physics theories. I don’t make a move to even look for the concealer. I wouldn’t know how to put it on.

I relax on the uncomfortable sofa and listen to Henry and Penny be nerds until I have to leave for work. Henry decides to tag along with Penny to her library study day. He likes reading, and she likes treating him like a little student or assistant. I can’t really pay attention or understand when Penny talks about smart things, but when I put Henry in front of her, he absorbs it all and can discuss it with her on nearly the same level.

The store where I work is called The Thrifty Tea Rose. It’s kind of a secondhand/homemade garden supply store that also sells houseplants and the occasional flower arrangement. And tea and pastries. It’s run by a woman named Miss Possibelf, and she’s kind and stern and likes me enough that she doesn’t comment on my bruised face. She just tells me I’m not working the register today and sends me off to prepare bouquets in the backroom.

I love the shop—the front part has lots of big windows that are filled with hanging plants. Towards the back there are wooden tables for people to drink tea and shelves stocked with hand-painted ceramic pots and colorful watering cans and other pretty gardening stuff. And there are potted plants everywhere and the whole place smells like tea leaves and fresh soil.

As I snip stems and wrap bouquets in decorative paper and plastic and ribbons, I think about Henry. I don’t know how to help him. If he could just make even one friend, I would be so happy. I don’t care if he’s not Most Liked or whatever, but he needs a friend his age. He can’t only hang around me and the girls and Ebb all the time.

It’s not like we don’t enjoy him—everyone who really knows Henry loves him. You just have to get past the rough outer shell that he wears.

I’m finishing lopping off the thorns on a bouquet of a dozen red roses when Miss Possibelf calls for them from the front.

“Simon? Do you have those roses ready?”

“Yes! One second!” I finish wrapping them up and then hurry to the counter. I set them down gently and then look up and my throat goes completely dry, because the customer behind the counter is the bloke that was at the fight last night.

Not Baz—I don’t combust on the spot; this is a normal panic—or the redhead. But the other dark-haired bloke, Dev. He recognizes me immediately, and his eyes get wide.

Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything in front of my boss. But while Miss Possibelf goes in the back to pick a vase at his request, he leans over the counter and smiles at me widely. He kind of looks like Baz, though his skin is much whiter. They have the same severe widows peak and posh air to them. Maybe they’re related?

“So this is your day job then?” Dev asks conversationally.

“Uh, yeah.”

His grin gets wider and he picks the roses up to inspect them. As he lifts them to his nose to smell them, he says, “These aren’t for Baz, by the way. He’s my cousin. My _single_ cousin. The roses are for Niall.”

I can feel my face burning. I cough, rub the back of my neck nervously. “That’s…nice.”

Really nice actually. I don’t stand a chance in hell with Baz based on how he looked at me after the fight, but it’s still a relief to know that he’s not with Dev. (And single. How the fuck is that man single? He’s so fit it should be illegal. Christ.) My shoulders relax slightly.

I hate that Dev knows what I’m thinking. He’s infuriatingly smug as he puts the roses back on the counter. Miss Possibelf comes back with a vase and I duck back into the backroom, eager to get away from Dev.

For the rest of the day, I’m stuck on the subject of Baz yet again.

Will he tell Baz I work here? Will Baz even care? He probably won’t. He looked at me like I was something good, and then I went off, and now he thinks I’m a monster or a freak.

I’ve been flirted with at the bar. It’s flattering, but I’m not really interested in most of the people who slip me their numbers scribbled on napkins or buy me a drink. It’s happened with men and women, but I just feel incredibly uncomfortable when they hit on me in that setting. I’m pretty well-known around the underground fighting scene, and most of them know who I am. It feels like I’m some kind of commodity. Or like they like me for the wrong reason.

Fighting isn’t really who I am anymore.

Right when my shift is over at five pm, Penny shows up with a stack of books in her arms and my little brother at her side. I thank her for watching him today, say goodbye to Miss Possibelf and the three of us start walking home. I carry Penny’s books for her. Well, half of them. She’s protective of her literature.

Penny stays over for dinner with us. It’s Ebb’s turn to cook and she made shepard’s pie, and it’s delicious. I make cupcakes for dessert. Ebb puts on old music and we play cards—Henry and Penny take turns beating all of us. After a while, Ebb declares its bedtime and sends Henry to go shower. I start some water for tea and do the dishes.

“The school called,” Ebb says. “Said Henry didn’t show up today.”

I run my hand over my hair. Penny says I should let it grow out again. I shaved it because I’m too lazy to try and maintain my curls and because it’s easier to fight when it’s so short.

“I let him have a break today. He’s having a hard time. Had a meltdown on the way this morning.”

“Still?” Penny’s voice is quiet.

“Yeah.” I say back, just as quiet.

Ebb sighs and looks sadly at the closed bathroom door down the hall where we can hear the shower running. “I don’t know how to fix it. He’s just different. Like I was. But instead of crying all the time, he just makes trouble. I can’t understand it.”

“The other kids are just afraid of how smart he is.” Penny declares, licking the icing off a cupcake.

“That’s part of it, sure.” Ebb says. “He has trouble getting along. He feels isolated. He’s had a different life than the rest of them.”

“Is he still seeing a therapist?” Penny asks.

“Once a week.”

“Have you guys considered putting him on medication?”

Ebb frowns and wrings her hands. “He’d hate that.”

“He’d hate that we’re talking about him.” I add.

Ebb winces and shakes her head. “I’ll talk to his therapist first thing tomorrow. Maybe we need to go back to two sessions a week.”

“Maybe. I tried to get him to talk about it today at the library, but he just ran off to the encyclopedia section every time.”

“That sounds like Henry.” Ebb drags her hand over her face and stands up. “I’m off to bed.” She hugs Penny, kisses my head, and then disappears into her room.

I dry my hands and sit down with Penny at the table. She’s still picking at her cupcake.

“We need to talk about _your_ problems too, Simon.” She looks at me pointedly. “You’re still fighting, and I can’t figure out why.”

I groan and lay my head on the table, shutting my eyes. “Can we not talk about it? I know it’s unnecessary, I know it’s bad. It’s just something I do.”

Penny pats the back of my head pityingly. “Oh, Simon. Why are both of you Salisbury boys so messed up?”

I snort, because how the fuck do I even sort out the answer to that?


	3. The Relentlessly Friendly Penelope Bunce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz makes a new friend

**Baz**

My cousin is the worst person on the planet.

He called me after football practice, and I could practically picture how pleased with himself he was over the phone.

“Guess who I saw today?”

“Unless it was one of our grandparents back from the grave to tell you that I better deserve your inheritance, I don’t care.”

He ignored me, naturally. “So, I was at this flower shop tearoom place, getting flowers for Niall—”

I interrupted him. “ _This_ is what you’re bothering me about? Buying flowers for your boyfriend?”

“I haven’t asked him to be my boyfriend yet! That’s what the flowers are for!” Dev whined.

I sighed and leaned on the wall outside of the men’s locker room. I had just showered after a particularly rigorous practice, and all I wanted was to go home, lie in my bed, and read a good book. Dev’s idiotic phone call was keeping me from that paradise.

“Okay, so you were at the flower shop. Why are you pestering me with this information?”

The smugness came back, full force. I hate it when Dev gets smug. “Because I happened to see a one Simon Snow behind the counter.”

Embarrassingly, I almost dropped my phone. My hand fucking spasmed, like I got an electric shock. I clutched it close to my ear and snarled out a “What?”

Dev actually fucking giggled. Like a child. “Wearing a flowery apron and everything! He works there, apparently. When he’s not bashing people’s faces in.”

Now, I groaned and let my head fall back, hitting the wall behind me. “Please tell me you didn’t—”

“I told him you were single.”

I couldn’t tell if I wanted to kill him more than I myself wanted to die. “Devlin. I swear to God—”

“What! It’s not like I gave him your home address or anything. I just dropped some helpful information about your relationship status.” Dev pouted.

“You’re a menace.” I growled.

Dev was not apologetic. “I know. The place is called The Thrifty Tea Rose. You should drop by, get a succulent or something. And maybe, Snow’s number. He seemed pretty happy to hear you were single.”

And of course, I hung up on Dev right then because I couldn’t handle any more.

It’s been twenty-four hours since then, and I’ve been going about my life in a daze of thinking about Simon Snow. As if I wasn’t already obsessed, now I know where he works during the day. He’s a florist? Or a barista or baker? It doesn’t matter, any of the options are far too intriguing and adorable and Dev said we was wearing an _apron._ Crowley.

It was so much easier to ignore the thought of him and his perfect, beautiful face and broad shoulders and muscular arms when I only thought of him existing in the ring, which I never plan to return to. But now I know that he exists elsewhere, in a flower shop of all places. And then my mind runs wild, thinking about all the other places Simon fucking Snow could be.

What if he goes to university and we end up in the same study room at the library? What if he shows up at the market, at a park, at the bank?

Every time I glimpse a man with golden brown hair or bright blue eyes, I find myself at full attention, hoping its him. It never is, and I don’t know if I’m glad or disappointed by it.

I’ve had stupid crushes like this before. (Mostly when I was younger.) But Snow is different. He’s interesting and mysterious and quite possibly just as much of a disaster as I am.

Nevertheless, I will snap my one-hundred-year-old heirloom violin over my knee before I seek out Simon Snow based on intel from my meddling cousin. I have some pride. (Not enough to rid myself of thoughts of Snow, but just enough to not go looking for the gorgeous plague upon my mind.)

My aunt Fiona lives in the same building as I do. (I knew it was a mistake to allow this to happen as soon as I’d moved in.) (She’s always inviting herself over and drinking any alcohol I have in my flat and eating any bikkies I have lying around.) She makes a point to have dinner with me at least once a week. Neither of us really knows how to cook, so we take turns ordering takeaway food. We always eat at my flat. (Which is fine, considering Fiona’s flat is full of her punk paraphernalia.)

Not that I’d ever tell her, but I tend to enjoy our standing dinner get togethers. We sit in my living room and eat at the coffee table and watch bad television. (By “watch” I mean relentlessly mock but secretly enjoy.)

But my thoughts are obviously elsewhere tonight, and Fiona pokes me with her socked foot.

“Where’s your head at, boyo? You’re missing our regularly scheduled televised shit.”

I look down at my curry. “Sorry, I’m just…distracted.”

Fiona grabs the remote and turns the volume down, then looks at me pointedly. “Pitches don’t apologize. What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, are you wanting to have a chat about my feelings? A little heart-to-heart? No, thank you.” I deflect, but Fiona isn’t having it.

“Don’t start that shit now. You’ve been somewhere else all night, now spill.”

I look at her sideways. “Since when do you care about my, and I quote, ‘twenty-something overblown dramatics?’”

She happily pours herself another glass of my wine and makes herself more comfortable on my sofa. “Since I got here and talking to you right now feels like trying to talk to someone underwater. Wait. Basil,” She grins at me, like a tiger ready to rip my throat out. “Do you have a bloke?”

I pride myself on my ability to keep my face expressionless, but perhaps I’ve had too much wine, or I’m just too helplessly infatuated with this virtual stranger, because my cheeks turn darker at her prodding. Fiona cackles and nudges me with her foot again.

“I knew it! You’re blushing, he must be under your skin.” She takes a sip of wine and wiggles her dark brows at me while she does. “Come on, tell me about this magical bloke.”

“He’s not _magical,_ ” I snarl.

“He must be if he’s got you like this. You’re all flushed and tense. Well, tenser than what’s normal for you.”

I scowl at her, letting her know exactly how much I’m enjoying this conversation. Why is my family like this? Fiona and Dev aren’t even related by blood—Fiona is my mother’s sister; Dev is the son of my father’s brother—but they both know exactly how to bother the ever-loving fuck out of me. (Maybe they’ve been taking lessons from Mordelia. Or she’s been taking lessons from them, since birth.)

“What’s his name?”

I groan and sink into the cushions of my sofa, defeated. I’m too tired to defend against venting my feelings to my aunt, who has been the only person in my life who I feel like understands me the most. And maybe, if I confide in Fiona about my ridiculous crush, it will go away.

“I hate you,” I say. Then: “His name is Simon.”

“Mhm. And?”

I brace my temple in one hand and close my eyes, “We didn’t even talk to each other. I barely met him at this awful street fighting match Dev brought me to. He was fighting, and—”

Fiona has the fucking audacity to interrupt me after she’s dragged this confession out of me, and I want to strangle her.

“Wait, wait, wait. Are you talking about Simon Snow? The kid who puts people in the hospital when he loses his mind. _That_ Simon?”

Unbelievable. I am beyond outraged. “You _know_ him?”

My aunt is not so amused anymore. “I know _of_ him. I have friends in all kinds of businesses, with all kinds of interests. I’ve seen Snow fight. He’s fit, I get it, but he’s obviously unstable.”

I remember the blank look in his eyes when he took down that man and just didn’t stop. Is Snow unstable? Maybe you’d have to be, to do something like that. But he seemed nice before that. So friendly and charming.

Fiona looks at me very seriously. “I wouldn’t chase him, Baz. He’s trouble.”

She’s right. Snow’s probably trouble. And yet—

I can’t get the way he looked at me out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about his eyes, his lips, his tattoos. I spent most of last night imagining what his hair would look like if it wasn’t buzzed, fantasizing about what kinds of other tattoos he has, if any. And I have this inkling, this intuition that’s not caving in under Fiona’s judgement. That Simon Snow is _good._

It’s been what’s distracting me to no end. Because yes, he’s devastatingly attractive. But there’s this feeling that is separate from that. I just feel like he’s light and good.

Never have I so easily disregarded my common sense. It’s frightening, frankly. And so, so exhilarating.

Unfortunately, Fiona sees my thoughts displayed on my face all too easily. “Christ, Baz. Why am I even bothering? You’re done for.”

I don’t argue with her. I just turn the television volume back up and we continue to watch our garbage programs.

Fiona is a woman of many talents, but one of her best—or worst, depending on the situation—gifts is her ability to make me think getting completely drunk on a school night is a brilliant idea. On one hand, I did not have any cognizant thought, so I wasn’t thinking about Snow. On the other, shittier hand, I’m dreadfully hungover and have to go to class. (And I'm once again thinking about Snow.)

My head feels like it’s been knocked around with a bowling pin, but I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, then to my classes, wearing the comfiest clothes I could bear wearing in public without looking completely slovenly, and a sour look on my face that discourages anyone from looking at me directly or attempting to talk to me.

Everyone except for Penelope fucking Bunce.

Penelope Bunce spares no one of her fierceness. It’s a quality I usually admire.

She’s in a few of my classes, and most days I enjoy our witty banter and interesting discussion of our shared course material—I actually consider her as slightly more than a casual acquaintance, despite the fact that we never see one another outside of class—but today I’d just rather be in bed with the curtains drawn.

Today when I sit beside her in the lecture hall, she pushes her purple cat-eye glasses up her nose and declares that I look like death. (When I first met her, I thought her glasses were silly, but now that she’s forced me to get to know her, I find that they suit her.)

Ever since the start of this semester, Penny has taken it upon herself to sit next to me in every class we share. We compare notes and sometimes email our assignments to one another to be peer edited. She’s undoubtedly one of the smartest people I’ve ever known. Sharp and assertive and fucking unrelenting in everything she does.

“Are you hungover?” She asks. _Way. Too. Loudly._

I glare at her the best I can with my head pounding like it is. “How observant of you, Bunce. If you would just keep your commentary volume to a minimum my hangover and I would greatly appreciate it.”

She looks at me apologetically and says, thankfully much quieter, “I knew something was off when you weren’t wearing a floral shirt that costs more than a semester’s worth of textbooks.” I’d roll my eyes if it wouldn’t hurt like hell.

Usually I’m very well dressed and put together. This morning I’m lucky I was able to put my bloody socks on without vomiting. I’m wearing dark jeans and a grey chunky cable knit sweater over a button down that I left unbuttoned underneath up to my collarbone because everything was spinning when I was getting dressed. My hair doesn’t have any product in it and is tied in a sloppy bun at the back of my neck. And my shoes do not match the rest of my half-arsed outfit.

I’m a disaster and it’s all Fiona’s fault. At least I can comfort myself with the fact that she’s terribly hungover too.

“Here,” Penny pulls a water bottle and something in a little paper bag out of her backpack. “Drink this. You need it more than I do. And my friend made this scone, if you’re hungry.”

Her thoughtfulness and generosity strike me unexpectedly hard. I don’t really have friends that aren’t also related to me. I’m not used to random acts of kindness like this from other people. I find myself growing disgustingly soft towards Penelope. She’s so smart and humorous and bluntly charming. Fuck. I’m not someone who actively makes friends, but she’s forced my hand with her sharp comebacks and color-coded flashcard study system.

I accept her offerings and take tentative sips of the water throughout the lecture. I’m slightly wary of the scone, worried that I’ll be sick if I eat it, but one whiff of the buttery, tart scent of the pastry erases my fears. It’s cherry, I think. I eat it with my hands, right there over my notebook while the professor talks about the Irish potato famine. It’s so delicious—light and fluffy and perfectly baked—that I wonder if Penny actually bought this from a bakery.

After class ends, when we usually part ways, I stop Penny outside the lecture hall and do something I’ve never done before. I feel and probably look like absolute hell, but I want this. She’s trampled through my defenses. I blame my pitifully hungover state. (And the fact that Penelope Bunce is a persistent intruder.) (She's pestered my email address from me already, it’s only a matter of time before she gets my mobile number.)

“Bunce—Penny,” I make an effort to sound sincere, to sound casual and nice, which are traits I almost never purposefully exude. “Do you want to have lunch with me?”

She doesn’t hesitate. Just loops her arm through mine and starts walking us to the exit. “I’d like that. I know this great place near here.”

Over lunch, I learn more about Penny than I have all semester. Both of her parents are professors, she has four siblings, a roommate named Agatha, and a best friend named Simon, the one who baked the scone. (My heart jumps into my throat when she mentions his name, but I assure myself that it can’t be _my_ Simon.) (Not that Simon Snow is mine. I’m not living a charmed life.)

She even drags some personal details out of me. I begrudgingly tell her about my four half siblings, about my ancestral home in Hampshire, and even a bit about Fiona.

There’s just something about Penny—she’s highly intelligent, but you can tell that she listens carefully to what you say. (She holds eye contact like a fiend.)

When we’re leaving the café she picked for lunch, she turns to me solemnly and says, “I don’t go out and purposely make new friends. I have four whole friends already, and they’re enough.”

I hate how my chest seizes anxiously until she finishes her statement. “But I like you, Basilton Pitch. So, you can be my fifth friend, if you’re interested.”

To keep up appearances, I pretend to think it over. Then, I keep my answer casual. “All right, Bunce. I’ll take your fifth slot.”

She rolls her eyes and writes something on a purple sticky note from her purse. (Because she carries sticky notes and pens around in her purse, because she’s Penelope Bunce.) She hands it to me. It’s her phone number, written in her practical, slightly squished-together handwriting.

“Text me if you ever recover from your hangover.” She winks and turns to go on her way, smugly throwing a few last words over her shoulder, “Oh, and your jumper is on inside-out. Bye, Baz!”

I look down and curse, because I’m _twenty_ , how did I leave my flat like this? I obviously was not in my right mind. (I haven’t been in my right mind since I saw Snow.) Crowley, I want to see him again.

However, I refuse to stalk him at his place of work. That feels like crossing a line. And it’s not even like I have lines with Snow, because our relationship is nonexistent. There are no bloody lines but showing up at his day job would not only be incredibly pathetic, but also creepy as fuck. So that’s out.

Am I desperate and pathetic enough to go back to that disgusting bar and just hang around there in case he shows up? I remember the miasmic smell cloaking the place decide that I’m not there yet. I haven’t sunk that low.

Classes drag by for the rest of the day and I feel like I’m on autopilot. I glower at anyone who even looks like they might talk to me. At least my headache has lessened.

When I get home, I collapse onto my sofa because my bed is just too far. The wine glasses from last night are still on the coffee table, and I glare at them. I’m never letting Fiona trick me into opening a second bottle ever again.

My phone buzzes and I groan as I fish it from my pocket and see a text from Dev.

_Pain in My Arse, 4:17 pm  
did u go to the flower shop and snog snow_

I should have smothered him in his sleep when we were children.


	4. Mishap or Lucky Coincidence? Maybe Both?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the park, a wayward football and a second meeting.

**Simon**

Henry wakes me up in the middle of the night, screaming and thrashing in his sleep.

We have similar nightmares, but different reactions to them. I tend to sleep curled up in a ball, and when I have nightmares I get really tense and cry out. Henry sleeps in a looser position, and when he gets a nightmare, he kicks and screams like someone’s attacking him. And based on what our nightmares tend to be about, that’s probably valid. Unlike me, he sometimes shouts words in his sleep, which makes my blood run even colder. Tonight’s one of those nights.

“NO, NO, NO, DON’T HURT ME—I’M SORRY, I DIDN’T MEAN TO—"

He elbows me right in my bruised, tender stomach, and I grunt as I’m forced awake. I curse when I realize what’s happening, and switch on my bedside lamp before trying to wrangle his flailing limbs enough to pull him into my lap.

“Henry, Henry wake up, it’s just a dream, Henry, wake up,” I shake him gently and pat his cheek repeatedly.

His eyes open on a choked inhalation of breath, and they dart around, like he’s forgotten where he is. As soon as he realizes he was only dreaming, he clings to me and sobs into my shoulder.

I try to get my heartbeat to slow down and hug him close, murmuring calming things into his hair.

“It’s okay, I’m here. You’re safe, nothing is going to hurt you, I promise. I’m here.”

Outside, a light turns on and my door soundlessly swings halfway open. Ebb pokes her head in, her short dirty blonde hair a mess. We have a silent conversation.

 _Nightmare?_ Ebb mouths.

I nod as I stroke Henry’s back and press my lips to his head. She always gets up when Henry does this, even though I told her when she first took us in that I can handle it on my own.

 _Warm milk?_ She wordlessly questions.

I feel Henry’s tears soak through my shirt and shake my head. Mouth, _water._

Ebb gives me a nod of understanding and then goes to the kitchen

Eventually, his small hands loosen their death grip on my tee shirt, and his shaking stops being violent.

I smooth his curls down a little—it only works because they’re sweaty—and brave a look down at him. His face is flushed, and his eyes are puffy and he’s taking these too-fast, stuttered breaths, like his lungs aren’t big enough to take more air.

“Take deep breaths, Henry. In and out. You’re okay, just breathe.” I tell him, using the corner of my sheet to dry his tear-sticky face and neck. He follows my direction and after a few deep breaths his breathing has evened out. He’s staring emptily at the wall opposite my bed.

Ebb comes back with a cup of water and a wet rag. She hands the rag to me and I press it to Henry’s forehead. He always overheats when this happens.

She sits beside us on the bed and hands me the glass of water, which I coax Henry into drinking. He takes a few small sips, and then guzzles the rest like he hasn’t had water in days. I put the glass on my bedside table and readjust Henry so he’s sitting between my legs and facing Ebb, leaning back against my chest. Ebb rubs one of his knees comfortingly.

“All right, love?” She says softly.

Henry nods slowly. Both of my arms are wrapped around him, and he puts one of his hands on my forearm, tracing the tattoos there. Specifically, the reddish pink roses scattered over my skin.

I got my tattoos when I turned seventeen. There’s ink from my elbows to my wrists, and more on my back. My forearms are colorful. The style was inspired by stained glass—every shape is outlined in black and colored in lighter or darker shades of the same color. The roses are my favorite. Henry’s too.

“It was a nightmare.” Henry says, voice raspy from screaming. He’s staring down at my tattoos. “ _He_ was there.”

Ebb and I lock eyes and she looks to be on the verge of tears. We both know who Henry’s talking about.

She opens her arms and Henry squeezes my arm before clambering over into her embrace. It took a long time for Henry to get this comfortable with anyone but me giving him physical affection. But Ebb is patient and kind and while she’s not mother-like, exactly, she has this caring and gentle way about her that makes a person feel safe and understood. She earned Henry’s trust with it over time. My heart feels too large for my chest whenever I see them together.

Ebb lets Henry lay his head on her thigh. She drags her calloused hands through his damp hair. “It’s okay now, Henry. He can’t hurt you. Not ever again. You’re safe here, with me and Simon. We’d never let anything happen to you.” She coos.

I rest my hands on Henry’s calves, which are still between my legs. “You’re safe, Henry. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

Henry releases a shaky exhale and closes his eyes, exhaustion coming down on him. “Promise?” He says sleepily.

“Promise.” Ebb and I say in unison.

He falls asleep in minutes while Ebb continues to run her fingers through his hair, and I rub his legs. When his telltale snores start to break the silence, I smile tiredly at Ebb.

“Thank you.” I say quietly, and I mean it. She’s better than me or Henry could have ever hoped for.

Ebb takes one of the pillows from beside me and slides it under Henry’s head as she stands up. “You don’t have to thank me, Simon. This is what I’m here for.” She returns my smile. She bends to kiss Henry’s head, kisses mine, and then goes back to her bed. The hallway light flicks off.

I rearrange Henry very carefully, so his head is back at the front of the bed, then slip back under the covers. I switch off the lamp and watch Henry’s face in the darkness, barely illuminated by the light from my window.

If I could take away his pain and add it to mine instead, I would. If I could erase all the terrible things he’s seen and been through in the past, I would. If I could destroy the bastard who makes him scream in his sleep like that, I wouldn’t hesitate.

I’d give anything to make it so my little brother sleeps peacefully through every night, so he doesn’t flinch like I do when people close by move too suddenly.

When I wake up at dawn, I’m so happy that today is Saturday that I could cry. I snuggle Henry closer to me and sleep in until almost ten. I get out of bed slowly to let him stay asleep longer and go into the kitchen to make scones. (I try to make them every other morning, but they get eaten so fast what with me and Henry cramming them into our faces and Penny and Agatha and Ebb making off with them as well.)

I set some water to boil on the stove for tea and sit back at the table, letting the scent of my baking scones fill up the kitchen.

From behind me, Henry emerges from my room, his stomach growling loudly. He sniffs the air as he sits next to me.

“Sour cherry?”

“I tried cinnamon apple this morning.”

“Smells good.”

“Yeah.”

He rubs his eyes and yawns. “Can I watch TV?”

“Yeah, just keep it down. I don’t know if Ebb’s awake yet.” We’re all a little lazy on the weekends. Ebb’s an early riser like me, but she occasionally indulges on sleeping in.

Henry goes into the living room and a moment later, I hear the TV softly playing cartoons. I check my phone, and Penny’s sent a text.

_Penny, 9:06 am  
Picnic today? I’ll bring a blanket and sandwiches, you bring scones and drinks_

_Simon, 10:26 am  
Good idea. 12ish at the park?_

_Penny, 10:28 am  
Yes. Agatha’s coming too.  
Tell Ebb to come with, Ags has horse girl energy for her_

_Simon, 10:29 am  
_ _Will do_

The oven beeps just as Ebb comes out of her bedroom, dressed in her favorite dungarees and a red sweater that offsets her bright blue eyes and yellow hair.

“Morning, boys. Any plans for today?”

Henry grunts noncommittally from the living room and Ebb chuckles while she fixes her tea.

I get the scones out of the oven, off their trays and onto the cooling rack without even once burning my fingertips, which I count as a victory. I put the goat-themed oven mitts away and turn to Ebb at the table.

“The girls want to have a picnic today. If I can drag Henry away from the telly we’re going. Do you want to come? I think Aggie misses you.” I tell Ebb while I start making eggs for us.

Ebb smiles into her tea. “That sounds like a great way to spend the day. I’d love to.”

From the living room, a loud question: “Can we play football too?”

I grin. “Yeah, we can play football too. And you can fly your kite, if the wind is good.”

Henry practically skips into the kitchen. “I hope Penny brings her chess set too.” He tries to grab a still-steaming scone from the rack, and I have to bat his hands away and distract him with a glass of milk.

We tear through a good amount of the scones I made for breakfast (Which is my fault more than anybody’s) so I start on a second batch and shower while those are baking.

When I come out of the bathroom, Henry and Ebb are piled up on the sofa watching one of his cartoons. His head is on her lap again, and she’s combing her fingers through his hair.

My heart squeezes, because I once thought we’d never get to have _this_ again. A home, a family. After Mum died and everything after that happened, I thought it would always just be me and Henry.

But then Ebb came, and I met Penny and Agatha, and everything just got so much better than I ever imagined it would.

I never thought I’d get this ever again. And more than that—the fact that Henry has this, when I feared he would never know the love and light of a family outside of just me makes me so incredibly grateful and so amazingly happy that I feel like shooting sunbeams out of my chest.

I get the second round of scones out of the oven and then sit on the sofa with Ebb and Henry, content.

It’s an ordeal to get Henry away from the TV and out of his pyjamas, but it does happen. We pack up the scones and lock the flat and get to the park by noon.

The weather is gorgeous for autumn. It’s cloudy, but the sun is still peeking through and making everything comfortably warm, and while there aren’t strong gales of wind that would be preferable for kite-flying, there’s a soothing breeze that makes everything feel peaceful.

Penny and Agatha have already claimed a spot a safe distance from the flattest part of the park, which people tend to use for recreational football matches. They wave the three of us over and we join them on Penny’s huge quilt she reserves for picnics. It’s near a large tree, so part of the blanket is cast in shade. That’s where Agatha’s sitting, looking pretty in a pink jumper and jeans embroidered with flowers. Penny’s sitting next to the picnic basket in her typical pleated skirt and buckled shoes, a uni sweatshirt too, to combat the crisp autumn air.

The park is buzzing with activity today with the weather being so cooperative. There are children running around on the playground, their parents watching them on park benches and blankets of their own. Senior citizens stroll on the walkways, younger people mess around with footballs and frisbees on the pitch. It’s a domestic paradise. And to make it all the better, Penny really outdid herself with the sandwiches.

We eat until we all feel too full to get up off the blanket. Agatha and Ebb talk about horses and I lay on my back with my head next to Penny’s thigh and toss Henry’s red rubber ball back and forth with him. I’m too lazy to sit up and see what Penny’s doing, but I’m pretty sure she’s reading a book.

I can hear the cacophony of children playing on the slides and swing sets from all the way over here. When Henry tosses his ball to me again, I keep it, effectively stopping our little game of catch. I finally sit up and look at him hopefully.

“Henry, why don’t you go play over there?” I tilt my head to the playground.

Henry glares at me for the suggestion, and also for stealing his ball. “I know some of those kids. They don’t…like me.” He grumbles, looking dejectedly down at his legs crossed beneath him.

I decide not to push him. Today is about relaxing and having fun. Being around people he doesn’t know and trust is the farthest thing from fun for Henry.

“Do you want to go kick around a football then?” I offer, and the way he immediately perks up and jumps to his feet makes me smile.

He expertly dribbles the football we brought all the way to the pitch, and I think it’s a shame that he’s not on a team. (We put him on his school’s team last year. He got through tryouts okay, but he wasn’t popular among his teammates. When he caused a fight on the field during his first game, the coach told us that maybe football wasn’t for Henry.)

Henry is great at football. Much better than I am, although I don’t mind. He makes fun of me for my lack of skill, but I’m just happy he’s enjoying himself. We play one-on-one and he lays waste to me, face lit up cheerfully the whole time. (He has Mum’s smile.) (So do I, I guess, but on him it hits me differently.)

We aren’t keeping score—lucky for me—just kicking the ball back and forth between each other. Henry keeps zigzagging around me with the ball, bouncing it from knee to knee while I run to catch up with him.

To get him to glare at me (and also because I’m just not good at football) I occasionally kick the ball wider and farther than he can reach, so he has to chase after it.

I do it now because I need a moment to catch my breath while he retrieves the wayward football. I kick it so hard it soars across the field.

Not meaning for it to go _that_ far, all I can do is watch the ball as it hurtles through the air. I can see where it’s going to land an instant before it does.

There’s a person standing there on the edge of the pitch, and I can’t get a warning out before the bloody football conks them on the head and sends them down onto the grass.

Henry and I look at each other, eyes wide and mouths open in shocked _o’s_ , and then we both bolt towards the person I’ve just possibly given a concussion to.

Two other people are already helping my football victim off the ground, and they’re rubbing their head, so at least they weren’t knocked unconscious.

As we get closer, things start to come into focus.

The person is a man. A tall man, with golden reddish-brown skin and long dark hair that is pulled up in a bun at the back of his head. He’s wearing expensive-looking football shorts and shoes, and this is the worst moment of my life because—

It’s Baz. Beautiful, too perfect for me Baz. ( _Single_ _Baz_ , an awful little voice in my head adds. I tell it to fuck off.)

The two blokes helping him to his feet are Dev and Niall.

“You okay, mate?” Niall is asking him as Henry and I finally reach them.

Baz nods, still rubbing his head with a grimace of pain. (Fuck.)

“Yes, I’m fine. Where in the hell did that ball—” Baz looks up and sees me and Henry standing sheepishly a few feet in front of him and stops in the middle of his sentence, looking like he’s just been hit in the head again.

I want to die. I want the pitch to split open and swallow me into its depths. Baz is looking at me with his fucking mesmerizing grey eyes and all I can do is lift my hand in the worlds shittiest greeting and choke out a, “Um, I’m sorry.”

Dev smiles the same smarmy smile from when he saw me at work. “Well isn’t this a coincidence! Baz, look! It’s Simon Snow!”

Baz glares at his cousin and shrugs out of his and Niall’s holds. “I can see that, Dev.”

Henry crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Dev. “His name’s not Snow, it’s Salisbury. Snow is his middle name.” He looks up at me huffily. “Simon, who _are_ these people?”

All three men look down at Henry in surprise. I think I see Baz’s mouth drop open for just a second before he puts on that cool look that’s been recurring in my head for the past few days.

“They, um, they know me from my fights.” I manage to say. I want to run and hide.

“You fought them? Or did they just watch? You could probably take them.” Henry doesn’t really have that much of a filter. All three of the men raise their eyebrows at him and then pointedly look at me. I wish the meagre sunlight would show mercy on me and burn me to a crisp right here, right now.

“I didn’t fight them, Henry.” I run my hand over my face and look at Baz, who is staring at me. His hair, which I’m sure was perfect, is messed up from where the football hit him. My face heats up in embarrassment and guilt.

“Baz…er…I’m really sorry about your head, the ball got away from me. Um. I didn’t mean to—”

Baz raises one of his eyebrows and waves me off. “It’s fine, Snow.” He tries to smooth down his hair but ends up having to undo his bun to fix it completely.

My heart stutters as much as my mouth does when his shiny black waves fall down and around his face and get tossed back gently in the breeze. Christ, he’s fit. His shirt clings to his chest and shoulders in all the right ways, and his legs are so toned and muscular. I wonder if he plays football regularly.

Suddenly, his sharp grey eyes dart up to look at me, and I’m struck with that same deliciously frozen feeling from my last fight, when we stared at one another from across the room. I can’t look away from him.

While I’m distracted by Baz, Henry retrieves our football from a few feet away, and comes to stand back by my side, effectively breaking Baz and I’s staring contest.

He juggles the ball between his knees distractedly as he says, “Simon’s rather enthusiastic about football, but he’s not very skilled at it.” Dev and Niall snicker at this, and I am living in a personal hell of my own making at this moment. “Is your head okay? My hair cushions blows like that, does yours? It’s really long. Especially for a bloke.”

Baz looks down at Henry as he finishes tying his hair back up. “And who might you be?”

Henry shrugs. “I’m Henry. Simon’s brother. Who are you?”

Baz glances at me briefly before answering my brother, making my already accelerated heartrate pick up even more. “My name is Baz.”

My brother crinkles his nose and tilts his head to the side in confusion. “What kind of a name is Baz? Is it short for something?”

“Yes. It’s short for Basilton.” _Basilton._

Henry scrunches up his face even more. “Yeah, it’s a good thing you go by Baz after all.”

Dev and Niall burst into hilarious laughter. Niall practically collapses into Dev’s arms. I look at Henry in shock. I can’t be angry, this is just the way Henry is, but why does he have to do this _now?_

“Henry, that’s not a nice thing to say.” I tell him. I hate how he stops juggling the ball and lowers his head guiltily.

Then Baz says, “It’s all right. He’s not exactly wrong.”

My chest feels warm, and it gets even warmer when Baz crouches down to be at eye-level with Henry.

“My first name is much worse.” He admits.

Henry, totally enrapt, leans towards Baz. “What is it?”

Baz looks around suspiciously, ignoring that Dev and Niall and I are obviously listening, and cups a hand over his lips to whisper, “Tyrannus.”

My little brother’s face lights up with glee and he laughs giddily. He turns away from Baz and tugs on my arm. “Simon! His name is _Tyrannus!_ That’s worse than Ebeneza! It sounds like a bloody dinosaur. I’ve got to go tell Ebb that she doesn’t have the worst name anymore!” And with that, he thrusts the football into my arms and runs off to tell Ebb the great news, leaving me alone with Baz. (And Dev and Niall, who are still chuckling at my little brother’s antics.)

I tuck the ball under one arm and rub the back of my shorn head awkwardly. “Sorry about him. You know how kids are…” Lame. So lame.

Baz nods stiffly. “Right.” His face is impossible to read right now. It’s like he’s drawn the shutters on his expression.

Niall releases a loud, sudden cough, and takes Dev’s hand. “We should go find you some ice for your head, Baz.” Dev nods emphatically.

Baz turns to them. “I’m fine,” he insists, but they’re already walking away.

“Do keep an eye on him for a moment, Snow. He shouldn’t be left unsupervised, delicate thing that he is.” Dev adds as they go.

Baz watches them go, a murderous look on his face. Then he turns back to me, impassive again.

“Sorry again. About your head.” I say. To fill the silence, and also because I still feel bad.

My brain is running around in circles because Baz is standing right in front of me, and he was kind to my brother and made him laugh, and he’s so fit and beautiful and fucking poised, even after getting nailed in the head by a football.

“It’s all right, Snow.” He says flatly.

“You can call me Simon!” I blurt and immediately regret it. “If you…if you want.”

Baz just looks at me. Not blankly. Just apathetically, with a hint of _I think you might be the dumbest person on the planet right now._

I’m used to that look. I get it from Agatha and Penny mostly. And sometimes Henry, when he’s snappy. But they look at me like they also like me and kind of enjoy the way I am. Baz looks like he actually means it.

“Uh…do you want to sit down?” I nod to the closest park bench, which is luckily unoccupied.

Baz raises one of his eyebrows (they look perfect, like he plucks and sculpts them like Agatha does) but follows me to the bench and sits beside me, a foot or so away.

We both look out at the pitch in silence. Should I say something? He’s not saying anything. I’m no good at talking anyway, I’d just make it more awkward by opening my mouth again.


	5. An Open Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second chance meeting with more friends! And a hint to a dark backstory also

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this fic! I so appreciate it, and it's such a good motivator to keep writing. Sorry it's been a couple days, final exams and all that have been taking up all my time, but here's another chapter, I hope you enjoy it <3

**Baz**

Simon feels bad about the football incident. He keeps glancing over at me nervously, chewing on his pink bottom lip. I wonder if I should give him shit for it.

It didn’t even hurt that much, it just caught me off guard. _He_ caught me off guard. I’d resigned myself to being obsessed with him for the time being, but I didn’t expect to see him again. Especially today, when Dev and Niall decided we should all play football at the park together. (I agreed, because apparently, my cousin can talk me into anything.) (I think he just wanted an excuse to see his new boyfriend in shorts.)

Part of me refuses to actually believe that I’ve met Snow again. (I’m so bloody glad I’ve run into him, even if he did hit me on the head with a football.) (I’d take just about any blunt force trauma to see him again.)

This meeting is not ideal, but it’s a meeting. He’s sitting beside me on a bench on this picturesque day in a park and I don’t know where to go from here.

I know more about him now, at least. His real last name is Salisbury. His middle name is Snow. (Which is ridiculous, and frankly, unfairly adorable.) And he has a little brother—Henry—who looks almost exactly like him, though he’s more talkative. Seeing Snow already knocked me off-balance but seeing him with his little brother brought me all the way down.

It’s similar to when Dev told me about Snow’s day job, and the fact that this gorgeous boy exists outside of my mind jarred me. But this is on a larger scale. Snow has a family. A brother. (I can’t help but wonder if Simon’s grown-out hair is curly like Henry’s. Crowley.)

He’s not saying anything now. I think he’s nervous. Fuck, _I’m_ nervous. (I should have killed Dev and Niall for their earlier transgressions.)

I’m sat a respectable distance away from him. He’s so beautiful. Apparently, he always dresses like he just rolled out of bed or finished a fight; trackies, terrible trainers, and a hoodie. He’s got his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, gifting the world with a lovely view of his tattooed forearms. I can finally see them up close.

Trying to look as if I’m not staring at him full-on, I attempt to catalogue his tattoos. There are all these shapes made of bright and dark shades of blue and pink and yellow and green, each shape and the varying shades filling them outlined in black. The shapes cover most of his skin from his wrists to his elbow, a deep indigo background peeking through. There are stars and thorny, leafy vines and…roses. The most common shape inked into his skin is that of a rose. Some are small, timid rosebuds and others are in full bloom. There’s one like that, right over the veins on his right wrist, and I want to run my fingers over it and feel his pulse. The other shapes are more like swirling designs of color that weave around the rose vines, stars shining through.

Snow’s half sleeve tattoos are odd. And striking and eye-catching, like him. I wonder why he decided to get them. I have half a mind to ask, to break the silence, but it feels kind of personal, so I don’t. Instead, I try to ease some of the awkward tension between us with what I hope is a safe, conversational topic. No matter how badly I want to dig into everything about Snow that he hides under the surface.

“How old is your brother?” That’s it. _That’s_ the easiest thing I could come up with. All my other conversation starters would be coming on too strong. _Yes, Snow, I know this if the first time we’ve actually talked, but please tell me the secrets behind your tattoos and perhaps what you dream of at night. And would you fancy a snog?_

Simon seems relieved by my question, like I’ve thrown him a life preserver. He sighs and makes himself a bit more comfortable on the bench, leaning back. I try not to stare at the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

“Henry’s nine.”

I hum for no good reason, and then for a completely different shitty reason, I say, “I have a half-sister who’s ten.”

To my surprise, Snow actually seems interested. He turns more towards me and props one elbow on the back of the bench, rests his square jaw in his palm.

“What’s her name?”

I can’t believe this conversation is working (we sound like mothers setting up a playdate for their children) but I’m going with it because he’s looking at me with those ordinary blue eyes and his cheeks are rosy and he’s smiling, just a little bit.

“Mordelia,” I say her name with a hint of distaste, because that girl is a terror, but I still grin a little in spite of myself. Mordelia, though irritating, is one of my favorite people. “She’s a nightmare.” I tell Snow.

He laughs, and his cheeks push up into his eyes and I’m suddenly breathless.

“Oh, they’re all nightmares.” He giggles, further incapacitating my normal functions. “But I think most of them are more good than bad.”

It should be illegal for one man to be so attractive and so unbearably decent at the same time. He’s even lovely with that bruise still on his cheek.

“Tell me about yourself, Snow.” I decide to be assertive.

He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Er. There’s not a lot to tell, to be honest. But I’ll tell you…if you call me Simon.” He looks at me; a little shy, a little hopeful, and kind of cheeky.

I quirk an eyebrow and stare at him critically for a moment. But I relent. I really want him to talk to me, I’m desperate for any bit of information I can get. I’ve been practically dying to know more about him, and this seems like the perfect chance to do so. (Especially since my stupid, meddling cousin and his evil boyfriend have abandoned me to my bland attempts at flirting.)

“Okay, Simon.” To my delight, he blushes when I use his first name. Excellent. “Tell me about yourself, Simon.” I say his name again. Because I enjoy being difficult and because I want to see him flush deeper. He does.

His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit of his, I’m noticing—and he looks out at the pitch in front of us again.

“Um, well, I’m twenty. I work at a garden store that’s also a café.” I knew that, but I nod just the slightest bit in encouragement. He’s not looking at me, but his eyes light up a little as he continues talking.

“I live with Henry and our foster mum Ebb…um, and I like baking. And gardening, but I only have like a couple houseplants in the flat…and…I’m out of things.”

It doesn’t slip by me that he didn’t mention anything about his fighting. Is it a hobby? Does he just really need the income from it? Is it some form of ill-advised stress relief? I don’t get to ask any of these questions, because suddenly I’m hearing my name.

“Baz Pitch!”

Both me and Snow look up and around, and then I see Penelope Bunce of all people, being led to us by Henry.

Simon looks over at me quizzically as they approach. “You know Penny?” Crowley, he’s unfairly cute. I’ve literally seen him break someone’s nose, but he’s still adorable somehow. Like a giant puppy. He never seems to close his mouth, either.

The pieces click together. Bunce’s friend Simon that she mentioned is my Simon after all. Figures. Does everyone in my life just already know who he is?

“Yes. She and I share several uni classes.”

Bunce and Henry come to stand in front of us, and she has a grin on her face that reminds me of Fiona, and it makes me shiver.

“Baz Pitch. There’s only one snob I know who has a first name like Tyrannus. I see you’ve met Simon and Henry. They’re two of my five friends.” As she says this, she puts an arm around Henry and he leans into her, tucking his face in close to her waist.

“Bunce. What are the odds?” I deadpan.

She makes Snow move over so she can sit with us on the bench. Henry opts to sit on the grass between Simon’s feet.

“So Henry said Simon hit you in the head with a football? What a meet cute.” Penny jokes, and Simon blushes perfectly before rubbing the back of his neck guiltily again.

“Er, we’ve actually met before.”

I can’t help but look sideways at him. He can’t lie, can he?

“Oh?” Penny raises one eyebrow.

Simon coughs and looks away from her. “Uh, yeah. He was at my fight the other night.”

Penny hums and glances past Simon at me, her eyes sharper than usual. “I wouldn’t think you’d be into that kind of entertainment, Basil.”

I ignore the kind of embarrassed way Simon is looking at me and lean back, crossing one leg over the other. I almost wish I was wearing proper trousers, so I’d be able to straighten them.

“It isn’t, really.” I say slowly. “My cousin convinced me to go.”

Henry leans his head back on Simon’s knee and looks at me suspiciously. He has a red rubber ball that he’s lazily tossing from one hand to the other. He has more freckles than Simon, but less moles.

“Was it fun? Simon never lets me go to his fights.” He complains.

Simon reaches down and rests his hand atop his brother’s curls, ruffling them slightly. “It’s not a place for kids, Henry.” He sighs the sigh of a hassled older brother who has had this conversation many times before.

Henry just grunts and returns his focus to playing with his bouncy ball.

Meanwhile, Penny seems to have made up her mind. “You should come join our picnic, Baz. We’re just about to eat the scones Simon made.” Her offer is followed with a surprisingly strong pulling on my arm as she stands up.

“But we don’t even know him!” Henry argues. Bunce lets go of me to look down at him.

“He knows me and Simon, that’s enough. We have excellent taste in friends. Take Agatha, for example.”

The nine-year-old ponders this for a moment, returning his suspicious gaze to me. His eyes are just like Simon’s, but they’re sharp and oddly intimidating for a child. “I guess he’s as posh as Agatha…” he begrudgingly admits.

Penny nods seriously. “It’s settled then. Come on Baz, our blanket is just over there.”

“Penny,” Simon says, exasperated, “Baz didn’t come here alone. He’s here with his own friends.”

“Speaking of,” I sigh, catching sight of Dev and Niall coming up on this odd little meeting.

“Oi, Baz. We didn’t get ice, but we did get coffee. I got you that sugary thing you like.” Dev says, thrusting a Starbucks cup at me. Both he and Niall have their own cups. I know Dev got hot chocolate, because he is a child and caffeine makes him jittery and spacey. Niall has some kind of iced monstrosity with a mountain of whipped cream on top.

I take the coffee and my mouth waters at the smell of it. “Pumpkin mocha breve?” I ask, already going in for a sip. I forgive Dev just a little for leaving me here, the meddling bastard. At least he knows my Starbucks order. It’s one of his few redeeming qualities.

“Yeah.” Dev turns to Penelope and introduces himself. “Hi, I’m Dev, and this is my boyfriend Niall.”

“Penny.” Bunce says flatly. “Baz, you didn’t tell me you had other friends.” She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me accusingly.

Dev snorts at that and I glare at him. Penny sighs and rolls her eyes. “They can come too.” It sounds like it hurts her to say. “Simon made enough scones to feed a small army. Of course, he and Henry could eat them all themselves, but there’s plenty for all three of you, if you like. Come along, boys.”

She turns and starts walking away, not bothering to look back. Henry hops to his feet and starts trailing after her, stopping to look back at Simon. They seem to have a conversation with their eyes, and after a moment, Simon stands up with a small grunt and Henry scampers off.

“Henry’s okay with you coming, as long as you don’t make Ebb cry.” Simon says.

“Who’s Ebb?” Dev asks.

Simon looks partly embarrassed and partly amused, a shy smile on his face and pink in his cheeks. “She’s our foster mum. She’s kind of weepy. You won’t make her cry, though, Henry’s just being dramatic.” He rubs the back of his neck and meets my eyes. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

There’s a part of me that started panicking when Simon said _foster mum_ that wants to take this out and run home to hide. But also…I’ve had one of his scones already, and I am a little peckish after playing football with Dev and Niall. And Snow is standing in front of me, bashful and blushing and so, so beautiful.

Luckily, Niall answers for me. “Oh, we’d love to. Lead the way, Snow.”

Snow turns and leads us in the same direction Penny and his brother went, and I walk behind him with Dev and Niall.

“I want you both to know that you’re meddling, traitorous bastards and I hate that I know you.” I hiss at them, low enough to be menacing and also to avoid being heard by Simon, a few feet ahead of us, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“That’s so sweet, Baz.” Niall giggles.

“We just want you to get a boyfriend, for Christ sake. He’s fit, he’s nice, he bakes.” Dev ticks off reasons on his fingers.

Niall takes a drink from his coffee and smirks at Snow just ahead of us. “He bakes, Baz. That’s cute as fuck. And he has _such_ a nice arse.”

I elbow Niall hard in the side, and he smirks wider when I hiss, “Stop looking at his arse, I swear to God.”

“What?” Niall looks at me innocently. “It’s right there in front of me, it’s not my fault.”

From the other side of Niall, Dev hums, studying Snow, and I want to punch him. I’m blushing so much I know it’s darkening my skin to an incredibly noticeable degree.

“Do you think he works out?” Dev wonders aloud, and I want to throw him into a fiery pit.

Niall scoffs. “Of course he does, Dev. Don’t be daft. You don’t do what he does in the ring without regular gym visits.”

Up ahead, under a large tree, I can see Bunce and Henry and two other women sitting on a blanket, drinking from water bottles. Henry and Bunce are setting up a travel chess board.

“Both of you shut up and pretend you’re not incorrigible gay fucks for thirty minutes.” I snap under my breath at them.

“I’ll do my best to suppress my base instincts, Baz.” Niall jokes.

We’re at the blanket now, which is large enough to fit everyone somehow. Snow throws himself down next to Henry, who is studying the chess board closely.

The two women are both blond and sitting in the shade. The older one, Ebb, I assume, waves at us.

“Hiya fellas. Nice of you to join us, sit on down. Would you like some scones? We have water as well.”

We decline the water, but soon enough we each have a scone on a paper napkin passed to us.

“This is Agatha,” Snow gestures to the blonde who, if I was straight, I’m sure I would fall over my own feet for. She is the embodiment of loveliness, with her smooth corn silk hair and big brown eyes. She smiles at us and offers a graceful wave.

Simon’s eyes get adorably soft when he introduces the other woman. “And this is my foster mother, Ebb.” Ebb has darker blond hair than Agatha, cut in server short lines at her chin and across her forehead. Her cheekbones are severe slopes and her eyes are blue and kind, her smile gentle. She looks like she should be in one of my father’s farm catalogues, with her worn dungarees and sun-kissed cheeks.

“Guys, this is Baz and Dev and Niall.” Snow adds, already stuffing a scone in his mouth. He’s talking with his mouth full, which I should find disgusting—I do—but the rest of him just cancels it out. He grins at me, cheeks full of pastry, and my father would be ashamed at how my stomach jumps at that.

Luckily, Snow swallows his bite before speaking again. “It’s cinnamon apple.”

I look over to see that Dev and Niall have almost finished theirs, and I realize that these two bastards are making me go through this because they’re hungry. Pricks.

While I eat my scone—which is delicious, damn Snow—I try to work up the courage to ask for his number at the end of this or give him mine. Both options terrify me, but I want to see Snow again so badly. I’m trying to drink in his presence as non-creepily as possible. He’s watching Penny and Henry’s chess game, doing his best to distract both of them when it’s their move. Snow tickles Henry’s side as he captures one of Penny’s pawns, and earns the piece being thrown at his chest in retribution. Snow laughs, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, smile like the fucking sun.

If I ask for his number, will he give it to me? I think he will. I think he likes me. (I like to think I’m rather self-aware. I know I’m attractive, and I’ve seen the way he looks at me occasionally, like I’m someone worth his attention.) But there’s this voice in my head that won’t let me just ask for his number because what if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s straight or just not into me?

And if I just take the leap and give him my number, I know I’ll torture myself insane until he calls or texts me, _if_ he decides to do so.

Simon keeps playing with Penny’s hair while she’s trying to think of what to do for her move, and she swats him away, laughing. “Let us play, Simon. Go bother Baz for a bit.”

Looking a bit like a kicked puppy, Simon turns to me and smiles nervously but earnestly. “So what are you studying at uni, Baz?”

I try to pretend that I haven’t been staring at him. “Literature. And you?”

He looks away, and my blood runs cold at a flash of his expression turning embarrassed. He forces a smile on his face though and keeps his voice light. “I haven’t decided if I want to go to school or not. So for now I’m just working and…figuring things out.”

Niall is making small talk with Agatha about her preferred eye makeup techniques and Dev is busy just watching Niall talk, so no one can rescue me from this terrible turn I’ve plunged this budding conversation into.

Luckily, Snow’s mobile rings from inside his trackie pocket. He apologizes to me and takes it out. I watch as he frowns at the screen and then stands up. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” He says to me.

“It’s fine,” I say, but he’s already walked off, the phone to his ear.

The call only lasts five minutes maybe, but it feels like longer. Simon has walked around the other side of the tree and wandered off that way. I can see him pacing back and forth throughout the call.

When he comes back, he looks like he’s barely holding himself together. His face is splotchy, his eyes are rimmed in red. Was he crying?

Simon’s shoulders are hunched when he goes over to Ebb and touches her shoulder to draw her attention away from Agatha and Niall’s argument over contouring.

“Ebb? Can I have a moment?” His eyes dart from me to Henry to Penny, who has looked up from the chessboard to look worriedly at her friend.

Ebb reminds me of my stepmother in the way she immediately sees Simon’s distress and quickly gets up to walk away from the picnic with her, their heads bent together, speaking in hushed tones.

Something is obviously wrong. I don’t know what, but the oddly pleasant mood of this random get-together has been tainted by something awful. Even Dev looks at me questioningly.

To her credit, Bunce waits a minute before getting up to follow Simon and Ebb. Patience is not one of her virtues.

“Baz, fill in for me.” She says, taking off after them without looking back. I slide into her place slowly, watching her go.

Henry does too, his little forehead puckered. “Something’s happened.” He murmurs. I don’t know what to say. Henry turns back and gestures to the board, seeming to shake his dread off a little. “It was Penny’s move. Don’t let me win just because I’m a kid, she never does.”

I smile a little. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We play for a few more minutes, neither of us really into it. Henry’s distracted, constantly looking over his shoulder at the forms of Penny and Simon and Ebb a good distance away.

Only Ebb breaks off from the other two. She comes back over, nose red and eyes watery. It makes the panic and worry that’s been building in my stomach grow.

“Henry, dear. Something’s come up. I’m afraid we’ve got to go home.” She chooses her words carefully. Agatha reaches up to take her hand, looking up at her in concern. She doesn’t ask what’s happened though, reminding me that Dev, Niall, and I are outsiders to this group.

In an incredible moment of true, nine-year-old understanding, Henry gets up without problem, gathers his football and red rubber ball, and attaches himself to Ebb’s side. She tucks him in close and smiles a wobbly, apologetic smile at the three of us.

“I’m so sorry, boys. It was lovely to meet you all. We’ll have to do this again sometime, but a…family emergency has just come up.”

Dev’s good breeding kicks in. “Oh, don’t apologize for that. Is there anything we can do?”

Ebb shakes her head. “No, thank you dear. Come along, Henry.” They head off back towards Simon and Penny, the latter of which hugs Simon quickly, and then comes back to us. Ebb, Simon, and Henry leave.

Penny looks appalled, distraught, and murderous. It’s a combination that makes my skin prickle. She throws herself to the ground beside Agatha and glares darkly at the blanket underneath her for a moment before looking up at the three of us, trying to look kinder than she feels.

“Sorry about all that, guys. It’s a family issue.”

Agatha looks as curious as I feel, but she’s polite enough to hold back her questions. She does rest her hand on Penny’s shoulder, which cools the other girl’s fuming just a bit.

“Baz,” Penny says suddenly, she extends her hand to me, making impatient grabby motions. “Give me your phone.”

It’s a true testament to how bloody confused I am that I follow her order without argument.

She types furiously into it for a minute, then hands it back. “I put my number in it, as well as Simon’s, because he needs a bit of a push in this department. And I feel like you do too. Also, I gave you my number days ago and it wasn't in here, I'll try not to take it personally.”

A completely undignified noise pulls itself from my throat, one that can only be described as a squawk. Dev and Niall only barely hold back their laughter.

“Thanks.” I say stiffly.

Penny efficiently knocks the pieces still on the chess board into the little drawer built in underneath it. “No problem. Just maybe wait a few days to text him. I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. And don’t ask me what just happened because it’s not my place to tell you. Simon may have heart eyes for you, but you haven’t known him long enough to unlock his tragic backstory just yet.”

My mind holds onto the phrase, _tragic backstory._ As if I wasn’t fixated on Simon Snow enough.


	6. Penny for your Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at what's happening through the wonderful narration of Penelope Bunce. (I wanted at least one Penny chapter, idk if I'll add in more pov's)

**Penny**

I like to think I’m a level-headed person in times of crisis. When bad things happen, I approach the problem logically and try to solve it.

But right now, I feel anything but level-headed and calm. I feel like I could kill someone.

When Agatha and I get back to our flat, I throw my picnic blanket on the ground and angrily start unpacking the things I brought to the park. Today was such a nice day. Why did it have to go bad?

“Okay, what’s going on? I get why you couldn’t tell me at the park, but you’ve just been fuming all the way here. What’s happening with Simon? Is he okay?” Agatha makes me stop shoving things into the bin and storing leftover scones.

I let her. Try to calm down. I tell her the awful news. “Simon’s dad was released from prison today.”

Agatha gasps and covers her mouth; her eyes go wide with horror. “Oh my God. _No_.”

“I know! Simon’s old social worker called, one that’s been monitoring his dad’s case for him, and said he was released today on probation because of ‘good behavior.’” I spit out the last words, so furious and terrified and heartbroken for Simon. He and Henry have been through enough. Things have been starting to be okay for them, and now this happens. Now the monster who hurt both of them so badly is back on the streets.

It’s taken a long time to get him to open up, but Simon has told me about his past. His early childhood was okay, when he lived with his biological mother. But after she died, he and Henry went to live with their estranged biological father, and that’s when things started to get bad. I only met Simon four years ago, when Ebb took him and Henry in and he was in my and Agatha’s high school class. So I didn’t know him when he was going through all those terrible things. But I know Simon now. I know how the echoes of his past haunt him.

And even if Simon didn’t tell me about what happened during those years he and Henry were stuck with their horrible father; I’d know something was wrong. Simon has scars inside and out. And nightmares. And he flinches all too easily at sudden movements. He even used to have these terrible panic attacks when something triggered a particularly bad memory. Henry is the same way.

Simon was eleven when Henry was born, and their mum died, and they went to live with their dad. Henry was just a baby. Until Ebb, the poor kid didn’t have any adults in his life who cared for him because once they finally got away from their dad, they were thrown into awful care homes.

And now, after all the shit the system has put them through—allowing them to live with their unstable, abusive father as kids, then putting them in terrible homes for years—their father has somehow been released from prison.

For good behavior.

I really could just kick the shit out of someone right now. Is this why Simon fights? Because he can’t contain his own rage?

Agatha’s voice is small and worried when she asks, “What are they going to do?”

“A restraining order, to start. That’s what the social worker suggested. Their dad is being closely monitored, and his parole officer is supposed to make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near Simon and Henry. But you want to know the worst part?” I’m getting hysterical, spitting my words, but Agatha doesn’t call me on it. She’s as shellshocked as I was when Simon told me.

“What?”

I bark an angry laugh. “The worst part is that that bastard wants to meet with the two of them. Monitored, of course. But he had the audacity to ask for that. Can you fucking believe?”

Now Agatha looks furious. It’s a good look on her, and I appreciate her outrage because it makes mine less lonely. “That is outrageous. He shouldn’t be allowed to even say their names, much less ask to get lunch with them!”

“Exactly! So now Simon’s falling apart, and I can’t even imagine how Henry is going to take it.”

Agatha seems to calm down a bit and looks out the window. “Should we go be with them right now? For support?”

I shake my head. “No, I think they need some space. They need to just be together. Ebb’s there, she’ll take care of them. I can’t imagine what they’re going through right now.”

“Me neither.” Agatha says.

We both fall silent. My mind doesn’t.

I hate that they have to deal with this. I hate that I can’t help. I hate that I know my closest friends are probably reliving the worst times of their lives, are probably scared for their own safety and peace of mind, and I can’t tell them that it’s okay, because the star of their nightmares is back out in the world.

I hate everything about this, and there’s nothing I can do to fix the situation.


	7. Demons and Drunkenness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: TRIGGERS FOR CHILD ABUSE  
> A split perspective chapter. It starts off heavy, but it gets cute and fluffy at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING; TRIGGERS FOR CHILD ABUSE  
> Simon talks some about his childhood trauma, it's not really graphic but it is kind of dark, proceed with caution please

**Simon**

Henry has gone completely nonverbal, and he’s slipping into one of his bad moods. I don’t blame him.

I’ve half a mild to join him.

He’s been my shadow ever since we told him the news. Glued to my side, clinging to my hand.

He took it like Henry takes everything; logically, quietly, thoughtfully.

But he’s also nine years old. So, he cried. I also cried. Ebb definitely cried.

She’s been really good through this. She supplies me and Henry with tissues and blankets and tea.

We’re a mess.

My mind just keeps going back to the call. The way my heart clenched at the number. I didn’t expect to hear from Henry and I’s social worker, Mr. Minos. He only usually calls once a year to check in, and that time hasn’t come yet. But I asked him to monitor Davy’s case when we moved in with Ebb, so I knew that the call had to be about that. His repentant, cautious tone also gave it away. Minos doesn’t tend to sugarcoat things, but his voice was definitely sugarcoated when he called me at the park.

_“Simon, how are you?”_

_“I’m all right. And you?”_

_“I’m fine. How’s Henry?”_

_“He’s fine. Why are you calling? It’s not Christmas. Did you just miss the sound of my voice?”_ I joked. I could feel that something was wrong, and I was trying to make the mood lighter. Trying to delay the bad news I felt was coming.

 _“Simon, I’m afraid I have some…upsetting news.”_ My stomach plummeted into my heels. _“Your father was released from prison this morning. I’m so sorry for telling you this with no warning, it was very sudden. Apparently, he’s been doing community service and got out early on good behavior.”_

 _“Simon,”_ Minos said haltingly. _“He wants to meet with you. And Henry, if possible. But he mostly wanted to talk to you. He said he’s better now, stable. He wants to reconcile the past, I suppose.”_

At that point, my ears were full of this awful, overwhelming buzzing that felt like a siren blaring inside my skull. I think Minos was saying more things after that, asking if I was okay, if I needed anything. I think I mumbled out some noncommittal answers, and then we hung up.

And all I could think about was Henry. Henry as a baby, asleep in his cradle as Davy shouted and wrote things on the walls of the living room. Henry as a toddler, hiding behind my shaking, skinny childhood legs.

I lived with my mother until I was eleven, before Henry was born. I didn’t really know Davy back then. I knew he was my father—Mum talked about him sometimes, and when I asked why he was never around, she’d smile sadly and say he just wasn’t meant to be that kind of man. I’d only met him a handful of times as a kid, on holidays when he decided to come around. He brought flowers for Mum, a football or stuffed bear for me. I didn’t know who he was. I just knew that he was hardly around, but I didn’t mind. I had my mother.

Shortly after Henry was born, Mum died, and then Davy showed up out of the blue to raise me and Henry.

He was shit at it. He was always too busy with his obsessive dark moods to make sure there was enough to eat or if Henry had clean diapers or not. Child services came and took us away before I turned fourteen, when I kept skipping school to take care of Henry, who was barely three, and pickpocketing to get money for groceries. A teacher me asked me what was going on at home and I broke down and started sobbing about how my dad didn’t go to work and was too busy writing insane things on the walls and mumbling to himself to take care of us. And that when he wasn’t ignoring us, he was hurting us.

That was the worst bit, I think; when Davy wasn’t acting like a madman, he was just mad. At us. At Henry’s crying, or my stuttering, or any other benign thing that ticked him off.

After that, Henry and I got put into care. It wasn’t great, but at least we had food most of the time. At least I didn’t have to worry about the day my baby brother got big enough to where Davy could rationalize hurting him too.

He’d shout at Henry. He’d ignore his cries and curse that he was ever born, but I never let Davy lay a finger on my brother. I’d get between him and Henry without hesitation, take the hit.

I know that Henry’s memories of those couple years are fuzzy. He was so young, but I remember perfectly. Too perfectly.

His memories, however foggy, still take a toll on him. It’s why he won’t let go of my hand, won’t let me get more than a step away from him.

I promised Henry that I’d never let anyone hurt him. I promised him that when he was too young to remember, too.

And now Davy is out of prison—he got eight years, for child abuse and neglect. I was fourteen. It’s not been nearly long enough. The fucker is out two years early. There’s no way in hell I’m seeing him, much less letting him see Henry. I wish that felt like enough.

It was a bit easier, knowing he was behind bars, tucked away. But now he’s out, and I’m terrified. He doesn’t know where we live, thank God, but we know that he’s out there, somewhere.

The ambiguity of it all makes it even more terrifying.

Henry and I haven’t left the flat for two days since the call.

I called in sick for work, Ebb sent an excuse to Henry’s school. Penny and Agatha came over today. Penny brought Henry’s favorite biscuits and a new book she wants him to read. Agatha hugged me for a full minute—which means she feels really bad for me, because she’s not big on physical affection. (I haven’t showered in two days, which she did not comment on. I must really be a mess.)

It’s the third day, and I can’t stand to be in our flat, just sitting around and worrying, stewing in bad memories.

I want to get out. I want to _move_. Even if he’s out there, lurking outside my nightmares now. I know if I sit around any longer, I’ll fall into a complete spiral and not leave the couch for a month. Pulling myself away from Henry is a challenge, but he understands needing alone time more than most.

While Ebb takes Henry to his therapy appointment—we’re back to weekly appointments now, for good bloody reason—I shower, put on shorts and a tee shirt, and go to the bar.

I’m not scheduled to fight tonight, but they always let me. It’s a weeknight, and a pretty bland lineup, so the audience is small and tame. I see Niall here, sans Dev and Baz. That’s normal, though. He tends to hang around here most evenings, I can’t imagine why.

I sit on the bench against the wall by the door, waiting for my turn to get in the ring. I could have gone to the gym, I suppose. I could hit things there. But I didn’t think. My feet just brought me here.

Niall spots me and saunters over. Ripped black jeans, studded leather jacket, bright green crop top. He’s always dressed in this fashion. He’s wearing his usual makeup too. His black-lined eyes look me up and down before he slides into the spot next to me. All his movements are fluid, like a cat.

“Evening, Snow.” He says. I guess now that we’ve officially met, he just thinks its okay to talk to me now. I guess I don’t mind. He seems all right. I still kind of feel bad for leaving him and Baz and Dev at the park, even though it wasn’t my fault.

“Hey,” Is all I say. I’m not much of a conversationalist, especially not right now. I think I’ve said maybe a dozen words in the past forty-eight hours.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” He comments, looking at the ring. Two blokes are fighting. It’s not very interesting. Maybe I’m just numb to it.

I shrug. Niall looks at me, and for a moment something like concern flashes over his face, but he replaces it with his usual casually leering expression.

“So has Baz rang you yet?”

That brings me out of my funk. I sit up and look at him incredulously. “What? No, of course not. Why would he? How? What?”

Niall shrugs. “Your friend Penny gave him your number after you took off at the park. I assume he hasn’t been given the go-ahead then.”

“She—she gave him my number?” I bluster, turning red. My voice is almost painfully high. “And what do you mean, the go-ahead?”

He tilts his head to the side. “She said you were going through something and he shouldn’t bother you for a bit. The family emergency, I’m assuming. Are you all right, Snow?” He looks at my pale face.

I think I’m going into shock. I am going to have a stern talk with Penny later, but all I can focus on right now is that Baz has my number. My best friend gave my number to _the most attractive bloke I’ve ever met_ and told him _not to call me until I had my issues sorted out._ I could die of embarrassment, I think.

My head thunks in anguish on the wall behind me, and then I slump forward, dropping my head in my hands.

“Ohh my God.” I groan into my palms. “He thinks I’m a basket case now. He _has_ to.”

Niall laughs, and I lift my face up to glare at him. “This isn’t funny.” I snap.

He shakes his head, still laughing, “I mean, no, of course not. But, it kinda is though? It’s just, I think Baz is into the whole basket case thing.”

My blush comes back. “That doesn’t make it better!”

“Don’t freak yourself out, Snow.” Niall says, like that isn’t the only option here.

I put my face back in my hands. “Christ. Why is my life such a shitshow?”

Niall claps me on the shoulder, and I notice his fingernails are painted green, to match his shirt. (If you can call the fabric barely covering his chest a shirt.) “We’ve all got shitshow lives, Snow. Oh, hey, I think you’re up.”

I look up. The announcer is waving me forward, my opponent is already in the ring. It’s a pathetically skinny bloke, maybe younger than me. He looks like he’s about to piss himself when I stand up.

I realize that I don’t want to fight him. I don’t want to fight anyone. And I’d feel especially bad for beating a kid like that. I shake my head at the announcer.

“Eh, I changed my mind. My head’s not in it tonight. Maybe put him with someone…more in his weight class.” I say. The announcer shrugs, the kid looks relieved, and Niall looks confused. Whoever was in the bracket before I butted in is called up.

“You’re not fighting, then? Why’d you come here?” Niall asks.

“I’m not really in the mood. You wanna go get a drink?” I nod to the stairs. He grins, sharp and excited.

“Now there’s a plan.”

**Baz**

My bed is a thing of beauty.

It’s not as big as my childhood bed back in Hampshire, but it’s big and plush and warm. I’ve collected many pillows and blankets and basically made myself a nest that I happily burrow into every night, because I’m always cold.

I’m asleep, and then I’m not, and I’m confused as to why until I hear it. Through my mound of blankets, I can hear someone pounding at my door. I swear to Chomsky, if Fiona has forgotten her key again, I’ll throw her out my fifth story window. I pettily wait a minute, hoping it will stop. It doesn’t. It gets more fervent and louder, and I don’t want my neighbors to complain, so I drag myself out of bed, put on my dressing robe, and stomp to the door. I see the time on my oven and swear out loud. It’s two o’clock in the bloody morning. Someone better be dead. If that’s not the case, I will amend it.

I can hear multiple voices outside, which tips me off to the fact that it’s not Fiona. I look through the peephole and only see the profile of who I think might be Dev, hissing something at whoever’s next to him.

I groan and open the door. “Dev, what the fuck—” Is already out of my mouth when I see who’s with him.

Niall is hanging off one of his arms, thoroughly intoxicated. He’s giggling, pressing sloppy kisses to Dev’s neck. His makeup is smudged and his hair’s a mess and he reeks of alcohol and sweat. And slumped on the floor, half-propped against the wall on the other side of the hall is Simon Snow Salisbury, out cold.

And then there’s my cousin, sober and sheepish, trying to keep his boyfriend upright as he giggles into his shoulder. He looks up at me contritely.

“Sorry, Baz. These two got drunk and Niall called me. I can’t take them to my place, I have roommates, and Snow couldn’t remember where he lived, and Niall’s place is a shithole, and I couldn’t think of where else to go.”

“Mmm—my place in’t a shithole,” Niall slurs.

“Can we crash with you?” Dev looks at me pleadingly, I’m just standing in my doorway like an idiot, staring at the prone form of Snow.

I suppose I don’t have a choice. It’s a miracle Dev managed to get both of them here, what with Snow like that and Niall all loopy. It’d be stupid to send them away. (Almost stupider than letting them in.) I sigh and step aside so Dev can walk Niall in.

“Fine, but you seriously owe me.” I snap, like Dev hasn’t just literally dropped the object of my affections at my doorstep. (Even if he is plastered.)

“Put him on the sofa and come help me with Snow.” I tell Dev, then venture out into the hallway while he gets Niall settled.

Snow is half sat up, chin resting on his shoulder. He smells like cinnamon and beer and a good amount of sweat as well. I kneel and shake his shoulder a little.

“Snow. Snow, can you hear me?”

He moans—Crowley, that should not sound as sexy as it is—and he slumps forward. I catch him with an arm across his chest.

“ _Shit_ , don’t—” He’s so solid, and sturdy. I try not to think of how his weight would feel on top of me. I struggle to sit him back up. “Snow, can you stand?”

His eyes peek open, little slits of blue. “Baz? S'that you?” He asks, low and gravelly and more sensual than he has a right to be right now, drunk out of his mind.

He’s unfairly gorgeous like this. Lips red and shiny and swollen, pupils so large there’s only a small ring of blue around them, cheeks and ears flushed from drink.

“Yes, Snow. It’s me, Baz. Can you stand for me?” I feel like I’m talking to a toddler.

Snow suddenly gets a burst of energy—his head jerks up and his eyes open wide and he nods emphatically. “Yes, yes, I can do that.” Then he just sits there.

“Do you…want to try?” I ask slowly.

His face drops into an adorable, clueless pout. “Aren’t I already?”

I want to laugh so badly I just barely hold it back, only smiling a little. “Not quite, Snow.”

He grins, wide and happy. “You’re so _pretty_ ,” he says, almost a whine. His hand reaches up, maybe to tough my face, but it flops back down before it gets there. Snow groans and leans his head back on the wall, his long throat moving as he swallows.

“You’re s’ _pretty_ , Baz. Is’not fair. You’re th’most pretty.” His voice is slow and sweet and golden, like honey.

So, I don’t have a heart attack, I remind myself that he’s absolutely plastered, and hook one of his loose arms over my shoulder, positioning myself beside him to support him as he stands.

“Come on, Snow, up we go.” I grunt, taking a good bit of his weight as I help him to his feet. He’s built like a boxer, and he has no balance or sense of direction, and he leans into me in a way that I’d appreciate if I didn’t feel like we’re about to fall over.

Luckily, Dev comes back and quickly supports Snow’s other side, grunting with the effort.

“Christ, you’re built like an ox, Snow.” He complains as we basically drag Snow into my flat. Apparently, all the alcohol he’s consumed seems to have made his legs malfunction.

“Ooh, an ox!” Snow croons. And then, to my utter delight/horror, he loudly starts mooing, like a cow. Long and obnoxious and hilarious and adorable. Fuck.

Dev cracks up while I desperately try to shush Snow, eventually resorting to clapping my hand over his braying mouth. He continues to moo into my palm as Dev and I deposit him onto my sofa beside a half-asleep Niall.

All the sudden, something warm and slick brushes against my palm. I can’t help the startled yelp that escapes me as I pull my hand away from Snow’s mouth. He smiles up at me triumphantly and licks his lips, and I hate that he can still make me blush when he’s hardly coherent.

I wipe Snow’s saliva off my hand with Dev’s shirtsleeve. He squawks indignantly, and I ignore him.

“Okay, what now?”

Dev and I take in our two drunken wards. Niall is practically catatonic, now that he’s not sucking on my cousin’s neck, and Snow is blinking up at me in an entirely too alluring way, considering he just licked my hand like a dog.

“Um, we should probably take off their shoes and... put them to bed?” Dev suggests and looks at me questioningly.

“You take Niall, I’ll take Snow.” I’d feel weird undressing Dev’s boyfriend, even if it is only partially. And I don’t want anyone but me touching Snow.

“They can both sleep on the sofa.” I add. It’s big enough. When I bought the multi-sectional sofa, Fiona made fun of me, but it’s especially convenient now.

Dev rouses Niall enough to slip off his leather jacket and tug his Doc Martens off his feet. Niall lets him, sleepily asking Dev if his makeup is okay, and calling him a liar when he says that it’s fine.

I look at Snow, who’s looking at me still. He’s wearing plain shorts and a hoodie. I decide to slip his worn trainers off his feet first. He watches me silently, head tilted to the side.

I realize I’m basically kneeling between his legs when I look up from his feet and see his face right in front of mine, pupils blown wide, mouth hanging open as he breathes. Trying not to blush or think about anything too much, I lean forward and start to unzip his hoodie to get it off him, and he still doesn’t say anything.

I’m trying to work the damn thing over his broad shoulders when I feel his large, worn hand move up beside my face to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, gentle as a breeze.

Holding my breath, I look at him, only to see that he’s staring down at my lips with an almost hungry look of longing in his hooded eyes.

“Baz…” He whispers softly. His breath smells like beer, warm against my cheek.

Just as quiet and gentle; “Yes, Snow?” My heart is pounding so, so hard.

He touches my hair again, this time running his fingers through it. It’s an effort not to close my eyes and lean into the sensation. _Simon Snow is running his fingers through my hair._ He’s careful not to pull, he’s so surprisingly gentle.

“Your hair’s messy,” he giggles, other hand coming up to play with it as well. His fingers scrub against my scalp and twirl through my hair as if he’s washing it. If he keeps this up, I’m going to kiss him. Christ, I need to go back to bed. I’m getting delirious.

I reach up and gently take his wrists, pulling his wonderful hands away from my hair. He looks at me, blinking slowly, sleepily, and I can’t take it. Sleepy, silly, sweet drunk Snow is more than I can handle. I can feel his pulse thrum through his wrists.

I hurriedly put his hands in his lap, and while he’s confused, manage to get his hoodie all the way off him.

Dev has found the extra pillows and blankets I keep in my linen closet and tosses one of each to me, then goes about getting Niall to lie down and be tucked in. Niall lets him, mostly asleep already, but Snow is more difficult.

I put the pillow down just a sofa cushion length away from Niall’s and pat it invitingly.

“Lay down, Snow.”

He looks from me to the pillow in a daze, like he can’t understand why it and I are in the same space. I sigh as my own exhaustion kicks in and I sit down on the floor beside where the pillow is.

“Come on, Simon. It’s time to sleep.”

He listens this time, slowly tipping over to rest his head on the pillow, yawning widely and shutting his eyes. I stand up and position his legs and feet so they’re actually on the sofa—the numpty only lied down halfway—and drape the blanket over him.

I think he’s already asleep before I do. And then, because I can’t help it and really want to and because Dev is too distracted brushing Niall’s red hair out of his face, I place a quick kiss on Snow’s temple.


	8. The Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon wakes up in Baz's flat.

**Simon**

I wake up with a splitting headache in an unfamiliar place, which makes me panic and sit up with a start, which hurts my head. I used to get this feeling all the time back in the homes, this disorientation when I first wake up. But this is different, I really have no idea where I am, and I’m freaking out a bit, rapidly looking around.

The first thing I notice is that I’m on a large, L-shaped sofa with soft, charcoal-colored cushions. Niall is also on the sofa, his head next to where mine was laying on an identical pillow. He’s not wearing his leather jacket or big boots anymore, and I realize that my shoes and hoodie are also missing. I’ve been draped in a blanket as well. Someone has taken care of us.

I’m in someone’s flat, I think. A nice one. Everything is solid colored, neutral shades of white and grey and black. Clean, posh, kind of minimalist. There are a lot of books on the shelves, like at Penny’s flat, and the large telly on the wall is dark. The whole place smells kind of familiar, even though I’m sure I’ve never been here before. Woodsy and citrusy. It’s soothing.

Is this Niall’s flat? Surely not. I can’t see him as having this clean and nice of a place. And if it was his flat, wouldn’t he be in his own bed instead of on the sofa with me?

I remember last night, blurrily. Niall and I drank, a lot. I think he was trying to see how many drinks it would take to get me plastered (it was more drinks than he had, I can hold my liquor marginally better than him). We laughed at everything the other said, tucked in a booth at the bar. We got completely wasted, and I think he called Dev to come and get us…is this Dev’s home? I kind of recall Dev making us leave the bar, herding us into his car, and bringing us here.

There’s a large, open and spotless kitchen behind the couch. It’s empty. There’s a hallway that I think leads down to a bedroom or a bathroom. I kind of need to piss, but I still don’t know who’s flat this is, and the only other person here is Niall.

I poke his head through his mussed red hair. “Niall wake up mate. Where are we?”

He just groans and buries his face further into his pillow. He must be more hungover than I am. I’ve always been rather resistant to hangovers. I have a headache, but I don’t feel nauseous or dizzy or anything. There’s early morning light coming in from the window, and I see a clock in the kitchen that says it’s just after seven am.

I stand up and stretch, popping my spine with a sigh. I guess I should find someone who isn’t in a heavy, hungover sleep. Dev might be sleeping in his bed, if this is his flat. But wouldn’t he have let Niall sleep in there with them? They _are_ dating.

I quietly tiptoe down the hall. The first door I find is cracked open. I peek inside, and luckily it’s a bathroom. I use the toilet and wash my face in hands in the cool water from the sink. The bathroom is posh too. There’s a large bathtub and shower, and the counter is lined with neatly organized bottles of hair gel and fancy aftershave and stuff I wouldn’t even know what to do with. There’s a stronger concentration of that woodsy citrus smell in here, probably coming from all the soaps and conditioners and potions.

Niall is still asleep on the sofa when I come back out. I don’t know where I am, I don’t have my shoes and my phone…Ebb and Henry must be worried about me. I never just don’t come home. I never even stay out too late without letting them know. Henry must be freaking out. With what’s just happened, he’s probably scaring himself with his own imagination. I need to get home.

I see my hoodie and shoes on a table by the door, next to Niall’s things. Sighing with relief, I rush over there and grab my phone from my hoodie pocket. I have a text from Penny, from last night.

_Penny, 3:23 am  
Hey, Simon. Baz texted me and told me you’d be crashing at his place tonight. ;) I told Ebb where you are, so don’t worry. Also, I can’t believe you got plastered without me! You’re so fun when you’re drunk, I’m sorry I missed it_

My body turns to ice as I read her message. This is _Baz’s_ flat. (No wonder it smelled so nice.) Why would Dev bring me and Niall to Baz’s flat?

Oh, God, now I remember.

Baz, walking my drunk arse into his apartment. Baz, taking off my shoes and hoodie and giving me a blanket. Oh, God, I called him pretty. I think I licked him too, oh fuck.

And why in the fuck was I mooing? Oh Christ, what if I said something stupid to him? We barely know each other, and he’s seen me embarrassingly drunk, acting like a complete loon.

I’m contemplating just putting my shoes on and leaving the flat without telling anyone, keeping at least some of my dignity intact, when a voice behind me makes me violently jump and almost drop my phone.

“Snow, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

I whip around and feel like I’ve swallowed my own bloody tongue. Baz is standing in his kitchen, in these fancy striped pyjamas and fancy matching dressing robe, hair mussed from sleep. His eyes still look foggy, he must have just woken up. My face feels like it’s on fire.

“Erm, yeah, I’m—I’m good. What—what about you?” I feel more underdressed than he is, in my wrinkled shirt and shorts that smell faintly of sweat and beer. I feel vulnerable, and embarrassed. I barely know this bloke and he literally put me to bed last night. Why did I let Niall talk me in to all those extra rounds?

Well, I suppose I know the answer to that. I wanted to forget everything, just for a little while. I wanted to forget that my father is back, and that Henry and I are falling apart in tandem. I don’t drink often. I don’t really like the depression I feel once the happy drunkenness melts off. I can feel myself getting dark and gloomy now.

Baz raises an eyebrow at me, even his perfect fucking eyebrows make me blush. “I’m perfectly well, Snow. I’m not the one who tumbled drunkenly in here last night.”

I put my face in my hands. “Shit, I’m so sorry about that. I promise you I don’t usually get plastered and then barge into the flats of people I hardly know. Last night was,” I lift my head and reach up and run my hand over my buzzed hair. I kind of hate wearing my hair this short. I have childhood memories of having curly hair like Henry’s, but I never let myself grow it out much after Mum died. Agatha has begged me to grow it out and then let her do things to it to make the curls look better, but I just haven’t.

“Highly amusing?” Baz says, catching me off guard.

“What?”

“You were completely detached from reality, Snow. It was worrisome, but hilarious as well.”

I look down at the floor. “At least I’m somewhat amusing. Still, I’m sorry for all this.” I gesture to myself and then in the direction of Niall, still passed out on the sofa.

Baz flips his (adorably) fluffy and messy hair over his shoulder, reminding me of Agatha for a moment, and leans his hip against his kitchen counter. How can he look so lovely first thing in the morning?

“To be fair, it’s not completely your fault, Snow. Dev is the one who brought you and Niall here.”

At the mention of Dev’s name, Niall stirs. He groggily sits up on the sofa, swaying a bit. His makeup which was so flawlessly applied last night, is a smudged, smeared mess on his face.

“Dev?” He croaks, looking around, “Where’s Dev?”

Baz rolls his eyes and points to the hallway behind him. “He’s asleep on the sofa in my study. Third door at the end of the hall.”

Niall rolls off the couch to his feet, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He shuffles off down the hall, eyes half shut. Baz and I watch him go, and then he turns back to me. For the first time this morning, he looks a little lost.

“I was going to have breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

I glance down at my phone, still in my hand. The idea of cooking and eating breakfast together with Baz in his kitchen is oddly inviting. And Ebb and Henry probably aren’t even awake yet. I’m embarrassed and a part of me just wants to go home and hide in my bed.

But Baz is standing right in front of me in silk pyjamas and this whole place smells like him, and I feel kind of disgusting inside and out, yet I really want to stay and make breakfast with him.

“Yeah, sure.” I say. I venture into his kitchen. (It’s amazing. He has two whole ovens, and a massive stovetop, and I think I see a food processor hiding behind his toaster.)

Baz rolls up the sleeves of his dressing robe and goes to open his refrigerator. “To be honest, I usually just have coffee for breakfast.” He says, looking inside thoughtfully.

I’m in the middle of washing my hands when he says this. I freeze, my hands still sudsy.

“What even…Christ, no wonder you’re so skinny. How can you just not have breakfast?” I gawk at him, finally rinsing my hands. I dry them on a dishtowel by the large metal sink, eyeing how the sash on his robe cinches around his narrow waist. His leanness is attractive, yes, but he should eat breakfast.

Baz has abandoned his fridge and is now fiddling with his coffeemaker. “I don’t know, I just never feel like I have the time.” He says dismissively.

I make a harrumph noise and brush past him to look in his fridge, because if he doesn’t even make breakfast than I should at least have full access to his kitchen so I can teach him why that’s appalling.

He has eggs and milk that are still good, and some fruit and vegetables. I could make omelets. I wonder what spices he has...

Baz points me to the things I need. Whisk, frying pan, knives, spatula. He sits on a stool at the island (because the posh bloke has a fucking island in his kitchen that I think is as big as the whole kitchen back at my flat) and drinks his coffee, watching me cook.

As I’m dicing peppers and onions and mushrooms I look up and catch him staring at me intently.

“What? Do I have egg on my face?” I joke, desperately hoping that I haven’t unknowingly screwed up something in his kitchen. I’m not the neatest person, but I try to be mindful of what I do, at least when I’m cooking or baking.

Baz shakes his head and smiles. It softens his face in a way that makes my knees embarrassingly weak. It’s a good thing I can lean on the counter.

“No, you’re fine. Sorry. You just really seem to know what you’re doing. It’s rather enthralling to watch.”

I continue chopping, purposefully keeping my eyes down on my task. I’m trying to decide if being enthralling is good or not. If the semi-terrifying ordeal of having Baz’s gaze trained on me is enthralling to him, I don’t think I mind.

“I’ve picked up a few things over the years. Ebb taught me some things, but I’ve picked up a lot on my own. YouTube helps as well.”

“Mmm.” Baz hums.

I sauté the vegetables in a pan and then start on the eggs. Baz pours himself a cup of tea now and returns to his spot out of the way, quietly watching me work.

I make four omelets, in the hope that Dev and Niall will come out. As soon as I’ve put each one on a plate, Baz and I hear multiple footsteps trudge up the hall. Dev shows his face, smiling smugly with his arm around his very hungover, very unamused boyfriend.

“Please say you have painkillers somewhere in this monochromatic place you call home.” Niall groans, rubbing his temples with a grimace.

Dev grins brightly and squeezes Niall affectionately. “Don’t worry, love. If anyone understands shitty hangovers, it’s Baz.”

“Speaking of…” Niall narrows his eyes at me. He looks a bit like a racoon, with all his eye makeup smudged around as it is. “How did you manage to make a fucking artisanal breakfast, Snow? You should be as miserable as I am, you drank just as much as me.”

I shrug and hand Baz a plate with his steaming omelet on it. “I’m not really affected by hangovers I guess.”

Niall glares at me and sits down on a stool next to Baz. Dev takes the one next to him.

“You can’t possibly be human, Snow.”

Baz gets everyone forks and drinks (and some painkillers for Niall) and then we’re all sitting in a line at Baz’s island, eating.

As soon as Niall starts eating, he glares at me again, leaning in front of Baz’s face to do so.

“You’re a fucking monster, mate. Who the fuck drinks as much as you did and then wakes up and makes _this?_ It’s so good. God, I hate you.”

Dev snorts into his tea mug. “He means to say, ‘thank you,’ Snow.”

When we’re done, Baz bestows the task of cleaning up to his cousin.

“Why do I have to do it?” Dev whines, gathering the dishes in the sink. “ _You’re_ the host, Baz.”

“The _unwilling_ host, Dev.”

Dev grumbles to himself as he does the dishes and Niall goes off to Baz’s bathroom to wash off the remains of his makeup. Baz excuses himself to go get dressed, and I check my phone. I have a text from Ebb.

_Ebb, 8:18 am  
Hi, dear. Let me know when you’re coming home. I’m so proud of you for finding someone! You should invite Basil to dinner sometime <3_

I tell her I’ll be home soon, but I don’t respond to…anything else she said.

When Baz comes back out of his room, fully dressed in a flowery shirt and fitted jeans (Christ, the _jeans_ ), ready for the day, I realize that I really should be going. (He’s even smoothed his hair back with gel or something, and I find that I like it better loose and around his face.) He might have class or work today. I stand up and put on my shoes and hoodie, stand in front of the door, and turn to Baz.

“I should, uh, get going. Thanks for letting me crash here, Baz.”

“Of course.” He nods, adjusting the wrist cuffs on his shirt. Flowers work for him. His shirt has all these little roses that look like they’ve been carefully stenciled onto the flowy fabric.

“And, um,” I hate that I’m bringing this up, but I’ll hate myself even more if I don’t. His eyes snap up to mine at my hesitation, questioning and so uniquely, undeniably grey.

“If you want to, like, text me or something, you, uh. Well, you don’t really need Penny’s permission.” The look on his face is carefully blank, but his eyes widen just a bit at my words.

He clears his throat, still looking straight into my eyes. “Duly noted, Snow.”

I open the door and awkwardly wave at him as I go. “So, um. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Snow.”


	9. Established Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz texts Simon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a bit, y'all. Holidays and all that. Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos on my fic, you are so sweet. This is kind of a short chapter, but it's cute. New one up soon with luck, hope everyone's holidays (whichever ones you celebrate) were good!

**Baz**

Simon Snow has given me permission to text him.

His best friend gave me his number, and he said I can text him. I’ve been given the very opportunity I’ve been dreaming about. My phone is in my hand. I’m just staring at it like I’ve never bloody used one before.

Penny typed Simon’s name into my contacts with a fucking heart emoji beside it. I’ve started a message, but the box is still blank. Should I wait?

Simon left over an hour ago. Dev and Niall left shortly after. I’ve been staring at my damnable phone screen for a good forty-five minutes. I have class soon. Does he expect me to text him right now?

Unbidden, my mind supplies me with a lovely image of Snow, intently staring at his phone, waiting for a message from me. I don’t want to seem overeager, but he did explicitly tell me to text him. I decide to just do it, and then run off to class and try not to worry about it.

_Baz, 9:37 am  
Hello Snow. It’s Baz. I’d ask if your hangover is still bothering you, but you seem to be impervious to it. What is your secret?_

After I sent it, I swear I started putting my phone away so I could gather my things for class, but then my phone vibrated and lit up with a new message, and I pulled it right back into view to hurriedly look at it, heart racing.

_Simon <3, 9:38 am  
I have a little headache but I’m fine._

And then, another, right after the first.

_Simon <3  
I don’t really have a secret to not having bad hangovers honestly_

_Baz, 9:39 am  
I refuse to believe there isn’t some secret magical ceremony or something you do before drinking. You were completely wasted last night; you should be miserable._

_Simon <3, 9:40 am  
idk  
where r u from?_

I tell him I’m from Hampshire, and in turn ask him where he’s from. Apparently, he was born in Wales but has spent a lot of time in Lancashire among other places in England. After that, we just keep asking each other questions. I walk to class with my phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen, wanting this conversation to last as long as possible.

His favorite colour is yellow, and he thinks most action movies are rubbish, and his favorite food is roast beef. (At first, he said it was scones, but I argued that they aren’t a truly sustaining food, so he conceded to roast beef.)

It’s a light and fluffy conversation, like one of Snow’s scones. We trade surface level information about one another. He doesn’t have a favorite book, but he likes things with dragons in them, and he doesn’t know if he’s gay or not. It throws me for a fucking loop. We’re talking about dragons and roast beef vs scones, and he suddenly asks:

_Simon <3, 9:48 am  
so ur into blokes, yeah?_

_Baz, 9:49 am  
Yes, I am. I’m gay. What about you?_

_Simon <3, 9:50  
idk_

My blood runs hot, then cold. Is Snow straight? Have I been reading him all wrong? What if he’s only interested in being friends? Then, another barrage of texts slam in all at once.

_Simon <3, 9:51 am  
I mean, I’ve never rly thought about it before  
Is that weird?  
I’ve liked girls AND guys. Maybe I’m bi?  
idk, I’ve never really thought about it. I’m weird probably  
…I like you  
Is that ok?_

I don’t understand how he just _doesn’t know_ , but I suppose it doesn’t matter. And he said he liked me. (Which makes me blush and grin down at my phone for longer than I care to admit.)

_Baz, 9:52 am  
Yes, that’s very okay._

I bite my lip, and then:

_Baz, 9:53 am  
I like you too._

_Simon <3, 9:54 am  
:)  
Ok I have to go to work now  
talk later?_

_Baz, 9:55 am  
Yes._

After that, he doesn’t text back. I put my phone away for real this time and go to class. When I see Bunce, she looks a little guilty.

“Simon said I shouldn’t have given you his number without permission.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

She nods and makes room on the table we sit at together so I can put my books down. I do, and then sit beside her, enjoying how sheepish she’s acting. Simon must have really chewed her out; she’s just barely making eye contact with me.

“Yeah. Simon also said I shouldn’t tell people I give his number to without permission to not text him without _my_ permission because of his issues. Also, I shouldn’t have told you about that. So.” She lets out a harsh breath and pushes her glasses up into her hair to pinch the bridge of her nose like she has a headache.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Bunce.”

Penny puts her glasses back in place and looks over at me with an apologetic smile. “Not really. But, I’m glad that I did. Thanks for taking care of him last night, that was really nice of you. He seems to really like you.” She cringes then, which makes her miss my blush, luckily, and smacks herself in the forehead. “Fuck, that’s meddling too. Sorry. Just talk to me about that American literature paper due next week.”

Penny doesn’t meddle anymore for the rest of the classes we share. And when we go out to lunch together, we only talk about literature and Penny’s job at the campus bookstore.

Tonight is Fiona and I’s takeout night. She shows up around six with an armful of Chinese food and a lit cigarette in her mouth. When I open the door, before I take some of the bags in her grasp, I steal the cigarette and take a quick pull before putting it out in my half-empty glass of water.

“Oi! What the fuck, I wasn’t done with that.” She dumps the food on the coffee table and glares at me.

I smirk at her as I bring a bottle of wine and two glasses over to the couch. “I’m trying to quit. And you shouldn’t smoke in my flat anyway.”

Fiona leans back on the sofa with a box of noodles and a trademark Pitch sneer. “So what’s been going on with you, boyo? Did you finally shag that boxer bloke you’ve been mooning after?”

I steal the noodles from her out of spite before she can get at it with her chopsticks and sneer right back at her. “No, Fiona, I did not _shag_ him. We hardly know one another, you insufferable woman.”

She sighs and goes for the sesame chicken now. “You think too much, Baz.”

“Perhaps you don’t think enough.” I snap. “I refuse to talk about this again. Shut up and suffer through this melodramatic shite they call entertainment.”

She snorts and I turn on the telly and we watch our stupid shows. But I keep getting distracted—Snow is texting me.

_Simon <3, 6:48 pm  
I tried to make homemade curry for dinner  
it did not turn out well  
Henry said it smells like feet and tastes like battery acid_

_Baz  
How does he know what battery acid tastes like?_

_Simon <3, 6:49 pm  
idk he’s just being a little shit  
The curry smells so bad I have to toss it outside in the dumpster_

_Baz  
Christ, Snow, how did you fuck it up that badly?_

_Simon <3  
I have no idea! It’s just awful  
I’m so ashamed  
I should just stick to baking, this curry is an abomination to food_

_Baz, 6:50 pm  
Perhaps. Luckily, your scones don’t taste like battery acid._

_Simon <3, 6:53 pm  
oh god, I could never forgive myself for fucking up a scone_

_Baz  
I couldn’t either, you are lovely.  
*your scones_

I want to chop my own thumbs off. What’s the point of millions of years of evolution if I can’t even text properly?

 _Simon <3, 6:54 pm_  
aw, thanks  
And you’re lovely too, Baz ;)

I drop my phone in my lap and shove my burning face into my hands, ignoring Fiona's confused look. This man is going to kill me.


	10. First Date Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon finally asks Baz out on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I hope 2020 brings good things to all of you!

**Simon**

Henry still clings to Ebb and I, but he’s going to school again. And he’s distracted, always bouncing his ball, and talking less than usual. But we haven’t received any calls from his teacher or principal, and he’s been doing his homework, so I think he’s doing okay.

I think he’s just…processing. Henry thinks much more than I do. I make lists of things not to think about—my father is at the top of that list—but Henry is the opposite. He thinks about things obsessively. He breaks things down inside his head and just _thinks_ about them. I can’t understand it.

He’s in a private place inside his head most of the time these past few days. But he still holds my hand when I walk him to school, still lets Ebb hold him when we watch telly after dinner. He’s slept in my bed every night since we heard the news. Unlike other people, he doesn’t need space to think. I have a theory that he likes human contact to ground him when he’s in his head like this, when he’s analyzing something so diligently.

We haven’t talked about it. About our dad being released. How he’s out in the world now, probably here in London. I don’t even know how to go about bringing up the issue. I assume Henry will come to me on his terms and we’ll tackle it that way; it’s how we do everything else. I don’t think about it, Henry does, and then when he’s come to some kind of conclusion, he brings it up and we talk about it.

I’m just trying not to think about anything. I go to work, I bake, I fight every few days. And when I’m not doing those things, texting Baz is an excellent distraction. I’m not just texting him so I don’t have to think about my problems though. I like him. A lot.

I like how he always uses proper grammar in his messages, and how terribly posh he is. I like the way he covers up his softness (because he is soft, I can tell) with snark. I like it when he calls me Simon, even over texts. A little thrill races through me every time I’ve exasperated him enough over text to use my first name when he tears me apart. I like making him laugh, even if I can’t hear him. (I know he’s amused when he gets extra sarcastic and sharp.) I don’t mind if it’s at my expense.

Baz is really funny, and as clever as Penny. And he’s thoughtful and interesting and kinder than I thought he’d be.

Christ, I want to see him again. We haven’t seen each other since I woke up in his flat last week. We’ve texted almost every day since then. I should ask him out on a date. It sounds easy, in theory.

The bruise on my face has healed, and I haven’t gotten any other visible ones, so I wouldn’t look completely horrible standing next to him. And my one nice shirt is clean and hanging in my closet, just waiting for an occasion to be worn. (I’d have to iron it though.)

I just don’t know where I would take him. Is dinner too much for a first date?

Baz likes posh things, I think. I’m the least posh person out there.

And not only is it a question of _where_ , it’s also a question of _how_. I trip over my words on a good day. Texting him is a little better; I have time to think over what I want to say, and I don’t actually have to say it. Just type it into a little box and press send. So in theory, I could ask him out over text and then ideally we’d go on a date, and then everything I’d say would be a garbled mess because I’m me and also because Baz is just so bloody perfect and it would be a disaster.

I need help. I’ve never been on a proper date before. In high school, I dated Agatha for a couple months, but we never really did anything other than go to a formal dance together and see a movie or two. And we kissed sometimes, but we weren’t really into each other after the beginning. We both agreed we were better as friends. (To Penny’s relief. She didn’t like us as a couple.)

For help, I go to Ebb. I’m not giving Penny a chance to meddle (again) and I would feel awkward asking Agatha (and she would too) and I’m definitely not going to my nine-year-old brother for dating advice, so my foster mum seems like the best option.

I plop down beside her on the sofa after dinner, while Henry is in his room focusing on his homework.

“Ebb? Can I…talk to you about something?”

Ebb immediately senses that this is important. She actually turns off the telly, sets down her cup of tea, and turns to me completely on the sofa, blue eyes trained on mine. She has a sixth sense for this kind of sensitive, emotional stuff.

“Of course, Simon. What’s on your mind, dear?” She smiles and rests her large, calloused hand on my knee, stopping it from bouncing. I didn’t realize it was.

I smile back at her and try to relax. There’s no reason for me to be nervous. This is Ebb. The kindest, gentlest person in my life.

“I…um…so I’ve been texting Baz a lot.” She nods encouragingly, gently squeezing my knee. “And I really like him.” I’m blushing enough for it to be embarrassing, but Ebb just keeps smiling in that calm, patient way of hers, so I push onwards.

“I want to ask him out. Like on a date, you know? I just, I don’t know how, and I don’t know what we’d do on the date.”

Ebb hums in understanding and picks her tea back up. She takes a contemplative sip.

“Well, you know where he lives. You could bring him some flowers and just ask him on a date then.” She purses her lips as she thinks, looking at the dark television screen. “As for what to do on this date…what does he like? What are his special interests?”

I rub the back of my neck and try to think. “Uh, he likes books. And football. And he plays the violin and, like, wears shirts with flowers on them…”

“Hmm.” Ebb drinks her tea and we sit quietly for a few moments, thinking. Then, her eyes light up. “Simon, I think I’ve got something!” She says excitedly. “You said he likes music, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so here’s my idea…”

Ebb’s suggestion is brilliant. I think Baz will like it. (Hopefully.) Now it’s only a matter of planning. I text him as soon as Ebb and I are finished talking and she hugs me and goes off to bed.

_Simon, 7:26 pm  
Hey, Baz?_

He answers right away.

_Baz, 7:27 pm  
Yes, Snow?_

_Simon  
Do you want to go on a date?  
With me?_

_Baz, 7:28 pm  
Yes. What did you have in mind?_

_Simon  
This is going to sound dumb, but I want it to be a surprise  
Is Friday okay? I’ll come and get you at seven  
You can just wear what you always do_

_Baz, 7:30 pm  
Friday will work._

Now I just have to not worry myself to death until Friday. I work and go about life normally, but I don’t fight. I don’t want to mess up my face or get seriously hurt before my date with Baz—it doesn’t happen often, but I don’t want to risk it.

On Friday, before I leave work for the day, I buy a bouquet of a dozen fresh red roses that I put together myself. Miss Possibelf raises her brows at me and smiles knowingly and gives me a discount on the flowers.

Then I rush home, put the flowers in some water, and hurriedly get ready. Henry watches as I bumble around in the kitchen with the flowers, and then sits on my bed after I’ve showered and shaved and brushed my teeth, watching me get ready.

“You’re wearing the fancy aftershave Agatha gave you for Christmas. You have flowers. You’re putting on trousers that aren’t trackies. Are you going on a date?” He asks thoughtfully, sitting with his legs crossed under him, head tilted to the side as he watches me put together an outfit. He’s never seen me put this much effort into my appearance save for job interviews and those few outings with Agatha back in high school.

I pull my nice shirt out of the closet. It’s white and has buttons and I think it’s nice enough that I won’t look like a total slob next to Baz and his fancy clothes. Henry trails after me as I take the shirt out to the kitchen where I’ve set up our rarely used ironing board.

“Yeah, I’ve got a date tonight.” I say distractedly, plugging in the clothing iron.

“With Basilton?” Henry asks. I look at him, surprised. He shrugs at the look on my face and hops up to sit on the counter next to the sink. “Penny told me.”

“Of course she did.”

Henry tosses his ball between his hands, casually scrutinizing me in Henry fashion. “Are you nervous?”

The iron has heated up, and I start ironing my shirt, careful not to singe anything. (I used to have two nice shirts, but I burned the other one with the iron.)

I exhale a long breath as I make the proper creases on the shirt. “Yeah, I’m nervous.”

Henry nods. “That’s understandable. But you shouldn’t be. Penny says that Baz likes you plenty. She says he’s nice and good enough for you.” I look up at him, lifting the iron off the fabric of my shirt as I do because I’m not taking any chances this time.

“And what do you think? About Baz?”

My brother shrugs again and tosses his ball up into the air before catching it and resting it in his lap.

“He’s as good looking as Agatha, and he plays football, so,” Henry shrugs again. “I guess he’s all right.”

I snort and we don’t talk any more as I finish with my shirt. I put it on and tuck it into my nicest pair of jeans that I wear with the shiny brown dress shoes I wore to one of Ebb’s cousin’s weddings last year. Then, I pull on the real leather jacket Ebb got me for my birthday. It’s warm, and I think I look okay in it. I almost wish there was something I could do with my hair, but it’s still short. I decide right now that I’m definitely growing it out.

Henry sees me out of the flat. He actually hands me my wallet and keys and the roses before I go. His little face is scrunched up in thought as I open the door to leave.

“Hey, Simon?” I pause and look back at him.

“Yeah?”

“Have fun, okay? You deserve to have fun.” He says solemnly, and when he looks up at me I swear he looks and sounds just like Mum.

My throat gets tight and I smile, shifting the bouquet to one arm before ruffling Henry’s hair and bending down to kiss his forehead.

“Thanks, Henry. I will. You better be in bed before I get back, okay?”

He frowns at that, but nods as I shut the door. “Yeah, okay.”

“Bye, Henry.”

“Bye.”

It’s a quick tube ride and a little walk to Baz’s building. By the time I get there, my hands are sweaty. It’s just a couple minutes before seven. I walk through the empty lobby of his building and get into the lift.

I let out a nervous breath as the doors begin to slide shut, but then a hand grabs the door before it can close. As the doors jolt back open, I see a woman maybe around Ebb’s age, holding two large grocery bags.

She’s dressed similarly to what I see Niall wear all the time. Big black boots, leather trousers, studded jacket. Her hair is dark, with a white streak right at the front, adding to the punk vibe. She looks downright scary, even carrying groceries, and I give her plenty of space when she steps into the lift.

“Floor five, please.” She says. I press the button. Baz is on floor six.

The lift doors actually shut this time, and the woman huffs loudly, blowing that strand of white hair out of her face. She looks over at me suddenly, and I almost start, because her eyes are the exact colour and shape of Baz’s. Her skin and facial features are the same too. She could very well be his mother.

She looks me over, eyes lingering on the roses in my arms and my face. I swear a glint of recognition gleams in her eyes. One of her eyebrows go up and she sneers at me.

“My nephew never does listen to me.” She sighs.

“What?” I ask, bewildered.

She glares at me and rolls her eyes. The lift doors ding and slide open. We’re at her floor. She steps out of the lift and gives me one last look.

“Treat him nice, kid.” She says. I don’t get a chance to ask her what she means. The doors shut again and then I’m finally at Baz’s floor.

I shake off the strange encounter the best I can and go down the hall to the familiar door. I knock three times, and a moment later, the door opens.

My mouth goes completely dry at the sight before me. Baz is wearing a dark green shirt with intricate, dark blue flowers stenciled on it, setting off the green and blue tint of his grey eyes, and those amazingly tight jeans I first saw him in. His silky black hair is down and loose and wavy and I want to run my fingers through it so badly. His shirt is buttoned up just to his collarbone, and I’m drinking in the sight of his skin, reveling in his scent, basking in his gaze. Christ, he’s fit.

“Ah, Simon,” He’s saying. “Right on time. Let me just grab my coat. Are those for me?”

I swallow uselessly and nod like an idiot, and my arms robotically hand him the roses. It’s so nice and so completely overwhelming to hear his voice again.

“Hi,” I breathe. He fucking smiles at me, and I can’t say anything else.

Baz goes into the kitchen and puts the roses in a vase he pulls from a cupboard and fills with water. My eyes can’t get enough of him. How his jeans hug his legs and arse, how his hair brushes against his neck as he moves. (His eyes, his _lips_ —)

He shrugs into a dark coat and we shuffle out into the hallway. While he locks his door behind him, I try to remember what words are.

“Thank you for the roses, Simon. They’re lovely.” Baz says. We’re just standing in front of his door now.

I blink, try to get my mouth to work. In my head, I imagine myself slapping my own face to snap myself out of this daze. Because he’s dressed like that to go out with _me_.

“Hungry!” I blurt suddenly, and Baz raises a brow as he buttons up his coat. Now that I can’t see his exposed clavicle, I can somewhat function. “Are you hungry?” I express a coherent thought, there’s some progress.

Baz nods. “I am. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

I shake my head. “Nope. It’s a surprise.”

He rolls his eyes, and this somehow makes my mind return to my body. I grin and gesture towards the elevator.

“Come on, mystery awaits!” I don’t know why I said that, but Baz laughs so I count it as a good idea.

When we exit his building, I take his hand so I can lead the way to our destination. I didn’t even think about it—I’m always holding Henry’s hand when we go places, and Penny tends to just grab onto me and drag me wherever she wants to go, so I’m used to hand-holding when I go out—, and I regret it after I’ve done it, but Baz’s eyes only go wide for a second before he squeezes my hand and smiles softly at me.

We walk hand in hand to a little restaurant I found online that’s near his flat and had good reviews. It’s also near our second destination of the evening, which will come after we’ve eaten.

We’re seated fairly quickly, at a small table with a candle and simple but elegant place settings on it. This place has pretty good Italian food, according to the Internet, and a casually romantic setting. There are fairy lights strung up across the ceiling, and deep red tablecloths. Baz looks even more like a dream in the low, golden light.

A waiter pours us glasses of water. We order a bottle of wine, and we get a basket of freshly baked bread for the table. It hits me once we’re left alone to look over the menu that I didn’t ask Ebb about what we should talk about during the date itself.

Fuck.

We’ve talked about plenty of things over text. He told me about his football practices and whatever piece he was working on with his violin. I told him about what I was making in the kitchen and about weird customers I see at work. It’s just that now he’s in front of me. And we’re on a _date_.

We look over the menu in silence, and at least debating over what to choose is a legitimate excuse to not make conversation, but then the waiter comes back and we order. Now we each have a glass of wine, no menus, and our meals won’t be out for a little while.

Baz takes a sip of wine, eyes trained on the flickering candle between us, and I decide to just pick a topic at random.

“I met this lady in the lift in your building.” I say, because the interaction is still in the back of my mind.

“Who was she?” Baz narrows his eyes, thinking.

I shrug and take off my jacket, draping it over the back of my chair. “Uh, I don’t know. She didn’t exactly introduce herself. But she had black hair with this punk white streak in it, and she had boots like Niall’s. I think she lives on the floor under you.”

Baz’s eyes are wide in what I think might be fear. “Oh God.” He says. Then he closes his eyes in horror. “That was my aunt, Fiona. Please tell me she didn’t talk to you.”

“Oh, she looks just like you. She told me that I should treat you nice." I laugh at the dismayed look on his face as his eyes fly open.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. She’s a menace.” He groans.

I take a slice of bread and begin to butter it. “She didn’t seem like a menace.”

Baz shakes his head. “Oh, I assure you she is. The woman is an agent of pure chaos.” Then, after a moment, “How much butter do you _need_ , Snow?”

I look down at my bread. I thought I was being relatively scarce with the butter, but his tone is that excellent combination of exasperated and playful. I smear another blob of butter onto the bread out of spite.

“That’s a loaded question, Baz. I _really_ like butter.”

“Your butter to bread ratio is terrifying and unhealthy.” He argues.

I maintain heavy eye contact with him as I raise the bread to my mouth and take a large, buttery bite out of it. He cringes, looking disgusted, but also amused. Mouth full, I grin manically at him. He shakes his head as I take another bite.

“You obviously have no fear, eating like that. I’m disgusted, terrified, and somewhat impressed.”

“I’ll take that.” I laugh. “So, you’re from Hampshire. You got family there?”

Baz nods and takes a slice of bread for himself. He puts a pathetically small bit of butter on it. “Yes. They live in my ancestral home in the country.”

I snort at the words “ancestral home” and he ignores me good-naturedly.

“I have four half-siblings.” He says, leaning back in his seat with a wry smile.

My eyes almost pop out of my head. “ _Four?_ ”

“Four.” He confirms. “Mordelia, the twins, and a little boy.”

“Wow. What are they like?”

“Terribly spoiled, the lot of them. But they’re…sweet.” He looks away and smiles privately, and I can tell that he truly cares for his family.

“And your parents?” I prompt.

His eyes lose a bit of their light from before. “My stepmother is a very kind and caring woman. My father…” He trails off. Well, _that’s_ something we have in common.

“Is complicated?” I supply. He nods, looking relieved.

“Yes. He cares for me, I know that. He just can’t accept the fact that I’m gay and going to be a teacher instead of being a straight, boring businessman like he wants.” Baz huffs.

I decide not to tackle the father issue right now. Christ knows I’ve got daddy issues as well. “You’re going to be a teacher?”

Now Baz lights up, like I flicked a switch to make him glow. He tells me about his plans to get his masters and find a job as a professor somewhere, and how he wants to focus on queer literature in his curriculum. I just watch and listen to him. I lose myself in his posh voice, in how his long, elegant fingers move when he speaks. I find myself staring at his lips a few too many times and have to make myself stop.

“What about you, Simon?” he asks after the waiter has come by to refill our water glasses and pour us more wine. “Tell me about your family.”

“Oh. Um,” I drink some wine to buy myself some time. I don’t want to talk about the rough parts of my past on the first date. I’ll keep it to the nice stuff for now.

“Ebb adopted me and Henry when I was sixteen, and um…” I can’t tell him about my real mum because then he’d ask what happened to her, and then he’d ask where Henry and I were before Ebb took us in, and all of that is just so depressing and awful.

“Before that, it was…complicated.” I cringe, hoping that he realizes I don’t want to get into this right now.

Lucky for me, Baz is smart as fuck. He gleans what I mean from what I’ve said and simply nods, then changes the subject to my work.

“So is your job at a bakery or a florist? I’m confused on the details.” He smiles across the table at me.

“Er, it’s a bit of both. Miss Possibelf—she’s the owner—kind of does it all. We have tea and pastries and flowers and…gardening stuff.” I shrug. “It’s hard to explain. You should drop by sometime though. The tea cakes are amazing. Also, the staff is super great.” He laughs at my exaggerated winking.

Our food comes, and I make an effort to not scarf it down like a wild animal like I usually do. I struggle to eat at the same pace Baz does, but we finish at about the same time and then order dessert—a giant slice of delicious chocolate cake. We both go at it with forks, still just talking.

“I met Penny and Agatha in high school, and they’re pretty much part of the family too. I’d be completely lost without Pen.”

“Agatha…that’s Bunce’s roommate, right? The blond?” Baz asks. He takes an elegant bite of cake and I want to lick the chocolate off his lips. I snap myself out of it.

“Yeah. She’s studying to be a horse doctor. I think Penny drives her nuts sometimes, but they’re good friends. What’re your friends like?”

Baz smirks and finishes off his glass of wine. “I’m similar to Bunce in the way of friends. Really, she and Dev and whoever he brings along are the only people in my social sphere, as sad as that is. I’m not very into…people.”

I nod in understanding, because I feel like that too, sometimes. The check comes, I pay, and then I’m taking Baz’s hand again as we leave the restaurant.

“Okay, so the next bit is the real surprise part. If you don’t like it, just say so and we can leave. But I think it’ll be fun. Er, hopefully.” I’m rambling, and he’s staring at me with that eyebrow raised again. I gently pull him along, blushing.

“Come on, it’s this way.”


	11. First Date Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The surprise part of the date is revealed, fluff ensues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but sweet

**Baz**

The way I’m feeling tonight is hard to explain.

I feel _present_. In a way I don’t usually feel when I go about my mundane life. Everything just seems brighter and realer than it does when I’m by myself. I’m extra aware of my own body, of the sights and sounds around me.

It’s Snow, I believe, who is causing this.

He’s so lively and golden and warm. I can’t keep my eyes off him. It’s like all the good things in the world are radiating from him; he’s the source of this amazing clarity of self I’m feeling.

Snow is holding my hand, and his smile lit up our dinner, and he’s taking me somewhere—a surprise, he says—and he could honestly take me to watch a dumpster go up in flames and I’d be completely content because I’m _with him_ , and he’s with me, holding my hand and electrifying my entire body with that simple touch, making everything warmer and brighter and better.

I almost feel as if I’m in some incredible lucid dream.

We walk hand in hand from the restaurant. He’s leading the way, and I’m just counting the moles on his face and neck and memorizing how his hand feels in mine. His fingers are shorter and wider than mine, and his palm is calloused and warm and a little sweaty and its proof that I’m not dreaming because my mind couldn’t conjure _this_. This perfect creature firmly gripping my hand and occasionally smiling up at me as we walk in companionable silence to wherever he’s taking us.

I try to stop ogling his square jaw and broad shoulders in his leather jacket when he stops our walk and says, “Here we are!”

I look up and see a humble, working-class pub in front of us. It’s nothing fancy or modern or artisanal. There’s a thick wooden door with a pint glass carved into it, and big clean front windows with golden light shining out of them. Inside, I can see a little bar, a few booths and tables pushed up against the unoccupied walls. And in the back, there’s a little raised platform where a few people with instruments are setting up, getting ready to perform.

There’s a good sized crowd milling about the empty floor in the middle of the pub, and a sign propped up by the door that reads, _Live Music Dance Night!_

It’s when Snow squeezes my hand and smiles up at me meaningfully that I realize he’s taken me here for a specific reason. He’s taking me out dancing.

Simon Snow wants to dance with me in this charming little pub on a Friday night.

The surrealness I’ve been feeling suddenly drifts away and I feel floaty and light and giddy. Am I swooning?

Simon squeezes my hand again, so gently. “So, um, do you—do you want to?” He nods at the pub, looking up at me but not quite at my eyes. His bashfulness pulls me back to reality. This fantastic, magical reality.

I squeeze his hand back in affirmation and tug us towards the door. “Yes, Snow. This is fucking brilliant.” I’m smiling and it feels too wide for my face, but Snow finally looks at me and smiles too.

“Yeah?” He pulls the door open and a blast of warm air and dozens of cheerful voices greet us.

“Yeah.”

The place smells like wood and golden ale. Snow shrugs out of his jacket and I do the same, and we hang them in a nearly overflowing closet just off the entrance. He points over to the little stage in the back. There’s an old piano where someone is warming up with some scales, and a violinist tuning their instrument. I also see someone with a trumpet and another with an acoustic guitar.

“They should be starting soon. This is Ebb’s favorite pub.” He says. We’re standing so close in the crowded space that he doesn’t have to raise his voice too much for me to hear him.

I lean down to speak into his ear—because I can, and I want to, and his body gives this delicious little shiver when I do. “So, which one of us is going to lead, Snow?”

“Lead?” He looks up at me with his perfect pink mouth hanging open just a bit, and I contemplate backing him up into the bar to bite that plump bottom lip. But I think if I did that, I certainly wouldn’t be able to stand properly, and I very much want to dance with him.

“Do you know how to dance?” I ask him, smiling. Crowley, I can’t stop smiling.

He frowns, blushing, and blusters something incomprehensible. I laugh, I can’t help it. This gorgeous idiot really decided to take me out dancing on our first date and he doesn’t know how to dance.

I take his hand this time and lead him to an unoccupied spot on the dance floor, in the corner farthest away from the bar and the stage. Then, I turn to face him, still holding his hand. I lightly place my free hand on his waist.

“What—” he swallows, tries again, “What are you doing, Baz?” He’s blushing beautifully, shoulders tense.

I roll my eyes, even though I feel as nervous as he looks. “I’m teaching you how to dance, Snow. I’ll lead, since I’m clearly the only one who has experience in this field.”

He stutters out something mildly insulted, but I ignore him. I’m on a mission now. To teach him how to dance—and also to see how far down his neck I can get his blush to spread.

I grip his waist tighter, enjoying how firm and warm he is as I pull him closer to me. Our chests are just centimeters from touching. Simon almost trips over his own feet, almost combusts in my arms. He smells like soap and cinnamon and mint. And like chocolate, from our dessert.

“Easy, Simon.” I note how my use of his first name makes him melt. His shoulders relax a bit.

“Here, put your free hand on my shoulder.” He nervously raises his hand and places it timidly on my shoulder, like he’s afraid I’ll buckle under the weight of his hand. “Good. Now step forward with your right foot, and I’ll step back with my left.”

He nods, jaw set in determination that makes me grin, and I step back and—he immediately steps on my other foot.

“Oh shit, sorry! Wrong foot, sorry.” He winces and I grunt.

“It’s alright, Snow.”

We practice what should be a simple half-waltz while the band finishes warming up. Simon Snow is perhaps the most graceless dancer in history. I can’t understand it. He looked so agile and light on his feet when I saw him fighting in the ring, and I’d assumed those skills would somewhat transfer over to dance, but they don’t. It’s as if he can’t tell his right foot from his left, he has no sense of timing or rhythm, he keeps fighting against my lead.

After perhaps the dozenth time he’s stepped on my feet, I relinquish my hold on him and take a deep breath. I’m exasperated, and my toes hurt a little, but I can’t help but giggle at how helpless he is at this.

“Simon, how are you so terrible at this? This was your idea; how do you not know how to at least not trample your partner’s feet while dancing?” I lean against the wall, giggling breathlessly.

He glowers at me, embarrassed and frustrated but clearly fighting hard not to smile, because even he realizes his lack of skill in this department is hilarious. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and his eyes are alight with a challenge. His cheeks are rosy from exertion. He looks phenomenal.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard!” He half-growls, half-whines. He slumps against the wall beside me and crosses his arms over his chest, huffing.

He’s wearing this crisp white button up shirt, and the sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows since dinner and the unobstructed sight of his muscular, tattooed forearms are a small consolation prize to the fact that I’ve had my feet stepped on repeatedly for the past few minutes.

We catch our breaths for a moment and the band finally starts playing. They start off with a lively, rhythmic song that gets most of the patrons in the pub out on the floor, some paired up, some twirling and bouncing by themselves.

Beside me, Simon huffs loudly and I look over at him just in time to catch him unbuttoning the topmost button on his shirt, which successfully incapacitates my ability to speak or breathe or think. Then he looks over at me, jaw set stubbornly.

“Okay, lets try this again.” He says and pulls me out onto the floor with no problem. Now _I’m_ the one stumbling.

I let Simon move me around like a doll, raising my brow in amusement at the serious way he places my hand on his shoulder now, puts one of his on my waist, and firmly clasps my other hand in his. He takes a big deep breath and lets it out slowly—and then suddenly pulls me closer, and the smug feeling I had watching him go at this so seriously disappears, replaced by a fluttering, warm sensation because now he’s looking up at me in pure determination.

“I’m gonna try leading, okay?”

All I can do is nod.

Simon Snow is not hopeless, I realize. He’s far from elegant, certainly not talented, but he’s got energy. He has spirit. It’s not so much about proper steps with him—this dancing is more based in instinct and the feel of the music and what _feels_ right.

I think having the music to help direct his movements is a large reason for the fact that he’s only stepped on my feet twice in the past few songs.

This is not like the dancing I was trying to show him, not like the dancing my childhood tutors used to teach me.

So far, the songs have been fast and fun, and Snow has been the center of my entire world. His hands guide me through spins around the dance floor and his smile and blue eyes are the only things I can focus on, it’s like the rest of the room is just a blur of sounds and colors. Everything is just Simon, and his breath against my chin (he’s a few inches shorter than me, we’re not exactly mouth to mouth), his warm hands on my waist, wrapped around my hands, braced on my shoulders.

I’m breathless, for more reasons than just the dancing.

The band takes a small break and there’s a lull in the room. Snow comes to a slow halt, bringing me with him. For a moment, we just stare at each other, my hands resting on his shoulders, his wrapped around my waist. He was turning us in slow circles, smiling happily. But now he’s looking up at me, panting softly, slack-mouthed, and I want to kiss him.

His mouth makes words, but I don’t catch them. I’m a little dizzy, overwhelmed by him.

“What?”

“D’you want to go get a drink?” He tilts his head towards the bar. There’s still sweat on his forehead, and more of it gleaming on his neck. I realize that my throat is parched, and my mouth is so incredibly dry. I nod.

We break apart and slip through the crowd to the bar. He orders a frothy, tall light ale. When the bartender slides it across the counter to him, he immediately picks it up and lifts it to his mouth for a long, deep drink. I distractedly order a scotch for myself, watching Snow’s showy swallow. When he stops half of his drink is already gone. He wipes the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

I get my scotch and we wander over to an unoccupied booth. I sit down and expect him to take the adjacent bench, but he slides in right next to me, pressing his muscular thigh and shoulder to mine. I knock back my scotch, closing my eyes against the burn down my throat. He polishes off the rest of his drink, looking out at the other people in the pub.

They’ve lowered the lights a bit, dark gold instead of bright gold. Simon’s eyes stand out more in it. He rests his elbows on the table. My eyes trace the lines of his tattoos.

He notices what I’m looking at and lays the forearm closest to me out on the table in front of me, palm up, fingers relaxed. I can see the shapes of his veins under his inked skin.

“The roses are for my mum.” He says, voice lower and more gravelly than usual. “My birth mother, not Ebb.” His eyes are on mine, earnest and soft and…vulnerable.

Unbidden, my hands come up to trace the blooming rose on the underside of his wrist, where his skin is soft and hairless, where I can feel his quick pulse. I don’t ask him about his mother. It doesn’t seem like the time. I trace the rose again and then thread my fingers with his.

“They’re beautiful.” I murmur. His eyes, which had fluttered shut at my light touch, open again, and he smiles.

“Thanks.” He whispers. His hand squeezes mine.

The band starts up again, and they’ve changed their mood—they begin again with a cover of a slow, romantic song.

Simon bumps my shoulder with his. “You up for more dancing?”

“Yes, but I’m leading this time.”

He pouts, adorably, but nonetheless, we find ourselves back out on the dance floor. I decide to go ahead and forgo proper dancing form and just do what Snow was doing—whatever feels right. He does too.

Simon’s hand is warming my skin through the fabric of my shirt, he’s holding me there at my waist like he wants me. His thumb keeps moving in these little circles against my stomach that are making me dizzy. He’s pulled me much closer than I would have dared, and he looked up at me in a silent question when he did. (I told him it was fine. I had to stop myself from telling him that it was more than fine, that he didn’t have to ask.)

His other arm is up around my shoulder, that hand resting at the back of my neck, just shy of my hairline. My hair is actually falling down over his hand. His chest is pressed to mine, and both of my arms are wrapped around him. My hands are splayed out over his back. I have his shoulder blade under one hand, and the base of his spine under the other.

It’s a kind of torturous, delightful heaven. To feel the warmth of his golden skin under my hands, to have the thin barrier of his shirt keeping me from discovering if he has more moles on his back.

His cheek is pressed to my shoulder. He’s taking slow, even breaths, but I can feel his heart beating fast against mine. He’s so warm, and I want to curl over him, melt into him. He’s muscular and solid and yet so soft.

Neither of us is really leading. We’re just kind of swaying in place, holding one another.

It’s quite possibly the best thing ever.


	12. Simon's Plant Con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz visits Simon at work! (its just fluff y'all)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait (again) I had this writers block that took me some time to conquer. Thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this fic, I love and appreciate your support so much, it inspires me to keep writing!

**Baz**

Ever since Dev brought Snow and Niall to my flat when they were drunk, my home has become the designated hang out spot for my cousin and his infernal boyfriend. They come and eat my food and watch football on my telly while they bother the fuck out of me. It’s like having two extra Fiona’s who have no sense of dialing back their PDA.

(I’d never tell them, but I do sometimes enjoy their company. They’re good together, oddly enough. Dev can be obtuse and stuffy sometimes, but Niall seems to break him out of that. And make him obnoxiously happy.) (I’d be more irritated at it if I myself wasn’t obnoxiously happy.)

“You’re acting different.” Dev says, poking me in the forehead in such a juvenile way it reminds me of Mordelia. “You’re…smiley.”

I glare at him and swat his finger away. “If I’m smiling, it’s only because I’m imagining being alone in my flat for once.” I say it loud enough for Niall, who went to the kitchen to get a drink, to hear.

Dev squints at me and his hand comes up to poke my cheek. “Are you sure? Because your smiley-ness is less sardonic and more…happy.”

I flush. I can’t help it. Snow took me out on an amazing date two days ago and I still feel like I’m walking on air, spinning around in that little pub with him. We danced until our feet were sore, until the band was packing up their instruments and the barkeeper was wiping down the bar.

Then he walked me home, warm hand wrapped around mine, banishing the chill of the autumn night. We got to my door, and my giddiness at the grand evening we’d had made me tempted to ask him inside for a drink, to drag out our time together for a little longer so he’d kiss me maybe.

Crowley, I wanted him to kiss me. I wouldn’t even care if there wasn’t a romantic lead-up to it. He could have just lurched forward in the bloody elevator or on the sidewalk and smashed his lips to mine, and I wouldn’t have complained. (I think I’d rather like a kiss like that from Snow. All brash and strong and sudden.)

But I didn’t invite him in, and he didn’t kiss me. I think he wanted to. There was a moment, in front of my door, when our hands were still joined, and he was smiling at me and I was smiling at him, and I thought he was seconds away from leaning up to peck me on the lips, but it didn’t happen.

It was a disappointment; though a relatively small one, because the rest of the date was so fantastic.

Snow thanked me for coming out with him, and I said it was my pleasure (because it absolutely fucking was), and he squeezed my hand one last time with that warm, charming smile on his gorgeous face, and then he was gone.

We’ve been texting like we always do. Easy banter, some light flirting, tales of his baking experiments and my reading material. (Snow isn’t an avid reader like Bunce and I, but he likes it when I summarize the books I read. His simplistic, inane questions and observations about classic literature never fail to amuse me.)

We haven’t discussed our relationship status. We’ve only been on one date—I think you have to put more time than one evening into dating before it becomes a real relationship.

As for our next date, I think the metaphorical ball is in my court. I don’t know quite yet how anything I plan will top Snow’s dance outing, but I have faith I can knock him off his feet as well. With careful planning.

Niall reappears from the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand and a bag of crisps in the other. I snatch it from him, but we both know that I’ll share when I’ve opened it.

“What are we talking about?” Niall sits back down on the sofa beside my cousin, who hasn’t ceased scrutinizing me.

“Baz is blushing and smiling like a schoolgirl and I’m trying to figure out why.” Dev says, stroking his chin like he’s Sherlock bloody Holmes.

“Oh?” Niall looks over at me and smirks. I know he knows that I know he noticed the still-lovely bouquet of roses Snow gave me before our date. Dev did not, because he went straight for the television when he burst into my flat, and because he’s an idiot.

“Could it perhaps have something to do with the pretty flowers over there?” Niall directs Dev’s attention to the roses sitting displayed in a vase on my kitchen island. I couldn’t bring myself to hide them when I had the chance. They’re a bright, fragrant reminder of Snow and I’s incredible evening together.

Dev finally notices the roses and his mouth drops open, because even he’s not dense enough to not know what they mean.

“Holy shit, are those from Salisbury?” He gasps. I suddenly remember that Simon’s real last name is Salisbury. Snow is his middle name. I’m too used to calling him Snow. (I can hardly help it; it’s an absolutely ridiculous middle name and I refuse to let it go.)

I shoot a hard look at Niall and say, “Yes, they are.”

“Did he finally ask you out?” My cousin is practically jumping up and down in his seat on the sofa, jostling me and Niall.

I force him to sit still with a firm hand on his shoulder. He’s still thrumming with excitement, and I’m hit all at once by how much Dev really does care about me. His dark eyes gleam with curiosity, and while Niall is pretending not to care, I can tell he wants to know as well.

I roll my eyes and heave a put-out sigh that’s only half overly-dramatic. “Yes, he asked me out. We had dinner and went dancing last Friday night.”

“Was it good?” Niall asks.

As I’m about to say that yes, it was one of the best nights of my life, Dev butts in, “Are you boyfriends now?”

“Yes, to the first, no the second, for now. We haven’t really discussed that quite yet.”

Dev looks almost comically confused. “Why?”

I hate that he’s asking the very question that’s been nagging at me. Because I’ve been telling myself that Simon and I are taking it slow, we’re being cautious, but I want him so badly.

It’s painfully, dreadfully obvious. I want Simon. I want him to be with me. I want him to want to be with me, and I feel like he does. For hours after our date, I could still feel a warm, tingling sensation at the spots on my waist, my shoulders, the small of my back where Snow’s hands touched me when we danced. His hands were almost searing on my skin, and I loved it.

The thing is, I don’t want to scare him off, and I am terrified of just asking him to be my boyfriend. I don’t think we’re there yet. He’s not even comfortable enough to tell me details about his childhood. I haven’t even told him about my mother’s death and the trauma I’ve suffered because of that.

So we’re not boyfriends, but I hope we’re on the way to getting there.

“Because we only just went on our first date two days ago, you git.” I snap at Dev. He rolls his eyes and puts his hands up in defeat.

“Fine, fine.”

I aggressively tear open the bag of crisps, and right on cue Niall’s slim pale hand darts into the bag and grabs a handful. His fingernails are painted black today. He munches on the crisps and leans against Dev, throwing his long legs over both of our laps. I knock his feet off my thighs, and he smirks like the little shit he is.

Dev rests his hands on Niall’s knees and we all refocus back on the television. Later, my phone vibrates with a text message. Then two more. I turn on my phone and ignore Dev trying to read it over my shoulder.

_Simon <3, 2:26 pm  
You should come to The Thrifty Tea Rose today  
The daily tea special is basil  
Get it? Basil tea? Because ur name is Basilton?_

_Baz, 2:27 pm  
Yes, Simon, I got it. Good on you for putting that together.  
How long is the shop open?_

_Simon <3  
til 5_

I delegate the bag of crisps to Niall and stand up to start gathering my things to leave the flat.

“Where are you going?” Niall asks.

I put my shoes on and shrug on my coat. “I’m running a quick errand. Don’t burn my flat down while I’m gone.”

Dev, who definitely spotted Snow and I’s texts, the nosy bastard, tells me to bring him back a scone as I’m walking out the door. I give him two fingers before it shuts.

I take an Uber to The Thrifty Tea Rose for two reasons. One, I don’t want to leave Dev and Niall unsupervised in my flat for too long, and this is quicker. Two, I want to maximize my time with Simon by getting there as soon as possible.

The shop is absolutely picturesque. From the hand-painted sign with a rose on it over the front door, to the hanging plant display in the large front window.

Then I’m greeted by the even prettier sight of Simon Snow Salisbury, in a tacky floral print apron over his tight black tee shirt and plain jeans. He’s watering the spider plants and hanging silverleaf vines suspended in the window, standing on a little stepladder. He looks like he should be on the cover of a garden magazine. I’m entranced by the way he leans carefully forward over the plants he’s watering, and by the small, serene little smile on his face as he does. How his broad shoulders contrast with his hips. He goes up on the tips of his toes and balances on one foot to get to a hanging container on the upper corner of the window, and that’s when he notices me standing outside like a stalker.

He smiles, and it’s so excited and adorable it makes me feel special, like I’m the best thing he’s seen all day—and then he starts wobbling precariously on one foot and I start to rush into the shop because I’m afraid he’s about to fall and crack his beautiful head open. But he luckily regains his balance at the last second and shoots me a still-smiling embarrassed look, more colour rushing to his face.

I enter the shop and a bell chimes, and then I turn to the left and Simon is right there, watering can still in his grasp as he cautiously steps off the ladder.

“Baz, hi!” He’s breathless, probably from his near fall. He places the watering can down in front of the window and leads me further into the shop, past a few shelves full of gardening paraphernalia and plants. This place is a strange and charming mix of an indoor garden and a pastry café. There are plants scattered all over the place, and a chalkboard on the back wall listing the menu options above a counter with pastries lined up behind glass underneath it. A few other customers are sitting quietly at the tables, sipping drinks and enjoying the green, happy, ambient energy of the place

“You got here really fast! What can I get you?” Simon goes around to the other side of the counter, still smiling at me.

“I believe there was a mention of a basil tea?” He grins and bends at the waist to rest his elbows on the counter as he writes down my order on a little notepad by the cash register.

“Anything else?” His eyes, bright and blue and excited, gleam up at me.

I kind of hate myself for it, but I do order a few scones, only one of which I will give to Dev. Simon gives me a little box of scones that has a rose stamped on the lid, and a tall cup of steaming, fragrant tea. When he hands it to me, I notice that he’s written _BASILTON_ on the side in choppy, stunted handwriting. He’s also drawn a little smiley face next to it.

“Do you have some time to sit down and hang out? It’s just about my break time.” He looks so pleased that I’m here, his cheeks are pushing up into his eyes in that way they do when he just can’t contain his smile.

Surely Dev and Niall won’t get up to anything nefarious in my flat while I’m gone. They’re grown men, they’ll be fine. The worst they’d do is snog on my sofa and eat all the snacks. I’m going to sit at a table with Snow for a few minutes and drink the tea he made me and lose myself in his smile for few minutes.

“I can do that.” His face lights up even more, and I want to give him everything he’d ever want just to keep that look on his face.

After I pay, he tells me to pick a table and then darts into a doorway behind the counter. I sit down at a little table and blow on my still steaming-hot tea. Simon is gone for a few moments, then reappears, this time (sadly) without his apron on. He comes back around the counter and sits in the chair across from me, setting a water bottle and a little plastic bag with a couple of sandwiches in it on the table.

“I am now officially on break. How’s your day been going, Baz?”

“Niall and Dev think they’re my new flatmates. They’re in my flat right at this moment, eating all my food, probably snogging on my sofa.”

Simon’s face scrunches up in pity, but he’s laughing too. He has a full, bursting kind of laugh, like it comes from somewhere deep inside of him and rushes up to his mouth uncontrollably. “Oh God, that’s awful.”

I take a sip of my tea—it’s not something I’ve ever had before, and it’s good. I take another sip of my namesake.

“They just invite themselves over anytime I’m home. I’m surprised Dev hasn’t asked for a bloody spare key, and Niall might as well have his own shelf in my bathroom.”

He snorts and starts digging into his sandwich. I’ve seen Snow stuff entire scones into his mouth; he’s very obviously a ravenous eater, but I noticed during our date and right now, that he’s making an effort to pace himself, to mind his manners. I wonder how he eats when he’s not being conscious of me.

“That reminds me of how much time me and Henry spend over at Penny and Agatha’s flat.” He says after he’s finished chewing.

I lean my elbows on the table and rest my chin on my palm. “Do you darken those poor girls’ doorway day and night?”

“We definitely did when I was in high school. A little less recently, but we’re still there often enough that Penny thinks we should pitch in on rent. But Penny shows up at our flat all the time, so…” he shrugs and takes another bite of his sandwich.

I drink my tea and Snow eats his sandwich and we talk about little things. He points to various plants in our vicinity and tells me their names—then he starts telling me about the plants he collects back at his flat. Information about plants, I’ve discovered, is one of the things Simon knows more of than I do. It’s a strange game I play inside my head, keeping tally of the things either of us know or do that the other has no inkling of insight about.

Like, I know how to play the violin, but he can make these intricate little designs made of foam on the surface of coffees, and for a man with such large, strong hands, he can immaculately decorate the tiniest pastries when he focuses. He wouldn’t know how to identify a designer shirt if it was thrown in his face, but he has an impressive ability to identify and name different kinds of succulents from just a look.

“—and I have this aloe plant in the living room that’s getting so big Ebb is scared she’ll cut her trousers on it if she brushes past it too closely. Anyway, so far I only have like twenty-three plants at home, and most of them are smaller, but Ebb says we can’t take any more because there’s no room left.” He finishes his lecture on his houseplants and sighs, looking forlornly at a potted plant on a shelf a few yards away from us, something with these delicate green vines sprouting uniquely shaped blue flowers spilling over the rim.

“I’ve had my eye on that mazus for a while, but Penny says I can’t store plants at her and Aggie’s flat anymore because of that one time with the cactus, so...” He shrugs and brings his eyes back to me with a smile. “Anyways—”

I have a stupid, mushy impulse all the sudden. “It’s pretty. Mazus, you said?” I ask, still staring at the plant. (The flowers remind me of Simon’s eyes.)

He nods. “Yeah. Um. It’s used as a ground cover, usually, but it can be an indoor plant too. Grows good on rocks. Why?”

I turn back to him but don’t look at his face, focusing instead on my mostly finished tea. “I…don’t have any plants in my flat. I’ve never had the notion, but I think I’d be able to care for one plant. Maybe that one?” I cautiously look up.

His face—that beautiful, golden face—lights up in an expression of glee I can hardly comprehend.

“Really? Oh my gosh, that would be awesome! I could show you how to take care of it, it’s not that hard—” He beams at me, bouncing in his chair with excitement. Then, he’s out of his chair, and he has the plant, and then he’s behind the counter, wrapping the clay pot in protective bubble wrap and tissue paper for my trip home.

Simon comes back and places the carefully wrapped plant in front of me, and then he’s scrawling out directions on how to care for it on a napkin. (His handwriting is a disaster.)

I’m still stunned by how fast he moved, how he’s so bright with happiness that it almost hurts to look at him.

“How much is it?” I ask, reaching for my wallet.

Simon waves me off, still scribbling on the napkin. I’ll never be able to read it. “Don’t worry about that."

I start to object, but he cuts me off by aiming that incredible smile right at me. Simon has stubby, slightly widely spaced teeth, and his mouth is wide and pushes his cheeks into his eyes when he smiles largely and unabashedly, like he is now. It’s a hazard to my health, I swear. I get short of breath every time it happens.

“It’s a gift. Well, a slightly selfish gift. This way, I have an excuse to visit you at your flat, to check up on your mazus.” He blushes and lifts his hand to the back of his neck, wide smile turning into a sheepish one that still gets to me, but at least allows me to breathe a little.

“Ah. Thank you.” Is all I can contribute, as if this wasn’t my main motivation for getting the plant. (Am I so desperate for Simon’s company that I’d resort to luring him to my flat with a plant he likes?) (For that smile on his face, fuck yes, I am.)

Simon begins to list off facts about mazus when the bell on door to the shop rings, and a moment later Henry comes into the café area, backpack strapped to his back and an impressive stack of books in his arms.

In what seems to be a routine fashion, he places the books on a little table in the corner next to an overstuffed armchair, and slips off his backpack before he spots Simon and I. He waves at me as he comes over and wordlessly sits beside Simon.

“Hey Henry, how was school?” Simon asks, automatically handing Henry the uneaten sandwich he had from his lunch.

“S’fine.” Henry shrugs and bites into the sandwich. “What’re you doing?”

I realize suddenly that this is their daily routine. Henry probably comes here and hangs out in the shop after school while Simon works, and then they go home together. It feels almost painfully personal for me to be here. I almost feel like an intruder, but neither of them seem tense.

“I’m on break and Baz came to visit me. You remember Baz, yeah?” Simon gestures over to me and then I hold all the attention of a nine-year-old boy. (Well, all the attention left over from what he’s giving to his sandwich, that is.)

“Tyrannus.” He nods, a glint in his eye. I regret telling this child my first name. Then he notices the plant in front of me, wrapped up and ready to go home with me. His eyes narrow and then dart accusingly over to Simon, who looks oddly guilty. He fiddles with his fingers in his lap.

“Simon, did you make him get a plant?” Henry asks flatly, already knowing the answer.

Simon’s shoulders try to fold inwards in shame. He doesn’t look at either of us. His lower lip sticks out in a pout, and something inside of me melts, though on the outside I’m amused, if a little lost.

“I didn’t _make_ him. He wanted it!”

Henry shakes his head disapprovingly, tutting. “Simon, we’ve talked about this.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What am I missing here?”

Simon says, “Nothing!” But Henry talks over him. It’s a whole show. Henry rolls his eyes and tilts his head to the side with a long sigh, like a fed-up parent telling tales of their misbehaving child.

“Simon has the habit of forcing his friends to get plants he can’t have. He made Penny and Agatha take a couple and they didn’t mind too much, but then he gave them a cactus and Penny accidentally knocked her hand into it, so he’s not allowed to give them plants anymore.”

“It’s not my fault Penny doesn’t look where she’s reaching! It’s not the cactus’ fault either!” Simon whines, sinking low into his chair like a scolded child, arms crossed over his chest.

I can’t help my laughter, earning me a glare from Simon, but a tentative smile from Henry. His smiles don’t come as easily as Simon’s. I think he’s a little more reserved.

“Have you tricked me into letting a gateway plant into my home, Simon? Are you going to foist more plants upon me?” I tease, pretending to be scandalized.

Henry is nodding enthusiastically, and Simon grumbles a petulant, “No.”

“Oh he definitely is. Watch out, one day he’ll show up with a big lemon tree and guilt you into putting it in your bedroom.”

“Hey, you liked the lemon tree!” Simon whines emphatically.

I don’t tell Henry that I’d happily let his older brother force as many plants as he wants into my flat if it meant he’d come over to see me. I imagine Simon Salisbury in my flat, pruning the plants he’s “forced” upon me, hair lit up in the light from my windows, drinking tea on my sofa. Maybe he’d even cook, like he did the morning after that night he drank too much with Niall.

Great, now I’m imagining him in an apron in my kitchen, making scones or cupcakes or something. Christ. Why am I so hungry for domestic moments with Simon?

Simon pouts some more as Henry finishes his sandwich alarmingly fast. It feels as if I blink, and the sandwich is just gone. He dusts off his hands and slips out of his chair.

“I’ve got homework to do. You can finish your mini-date now. I just had to warn you, Baz. Simon’s sneakier than he looks.” Henry smirks mischievously, an expression I can’t quite imagine on Simon, which catches me off guard because Henry looks _so much_ like Simon.

“Oi!” Simon’s arm darts out to catch Henry, probably aiming to ruffle his hair or something, but Henry slips out of his reach, still smirking as he retreats back to his chair with his things in the corner.

“Little weasel,” I hear Simon mutter, shaking his head fondly.

“He’s an interesting child.” I muse, looking over to where Henry, now with a book open on his lap, is sitting. “I quite like him. He reminds me of Mordelia, a little.”

“Your stepsister?”

“Yes. Mordelia shares a sharp wit similar to his. She takes no prisoners.” I shake my own head, remembering my little sister’s proclivity towards roasting me every chance she gets.

“That sounds like Henry.” Simon sighs, eyes losing some of their brightness. His voice lowers to an almost whisper, his shoulders drop a little. “He has trouble making friends at school. He’s a good kid, an amazing kid. Brilliant, and thoughtful and really funny. He just…has issues, you know?”

I nod in sympathetic understanding, even though I don’t know, not really. I’ve gleaned that Simon and Henry don’t come from a particularly happy background, but Simon hasn’t shared the details with me. I just know Ebb adopted him and Henry about four years ago.

I know that Simon had a mother. A mother who inspired the beautiful rose tattoos on his arms, which I find myself staring at now. I don’t know what happened to his mother, if she’s still around or not. It hits me, unexpectedly and without mercy, that I still know so little about Simon. That he still knows next to nothing about me.

I want to change that so dearly.


	13. A Common Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon talk on the phone (its a lot of angst y'all)

**Simon**

I gave Ebb a little gift as a thank you for suggesting taking Baz dancing for our first date. I found these mittens with little sheep on them that I gave to her along with a bouquet of daisies. She cried when I gave them to her, even though we give each other gifts pretty often. That’s just how Ebb is.

“I’m so happy I could help,” She said, uselessly trying to dry her eyes. “You two look so sweet together, I can’t wait til you bring him around for dinner.”

She’s really been pushing for me to invite Baz over for dinner or tea or something. That kind of thing is really important to Ebb, so I’ve promised we’ll do it soon.

I don’t think Baz would mind. I actually think he’d be pretty into it; he seems like a pretty family-oriented person. He talks about his stepmother and half-siblings and aunt all the time, and he sees them as much as he can. (Not a lot of stories about his father, but I can understand that, they seem to have a rocky relationship.)

And he gets along with Henry pretty well, which is a bloody relief. If Henry decides he doesn’t like someone, it can be really difficult to change his mind. But he and Baz seem to have united in their shared interest of making fun of me.

I thought I was going to die of embarrassment when Henry revealed what Penny calls my “Plant-Gifting Scam” to Baz when he was visiting me at work today. But it was, admittedly, a little funny. And it’s not a scam, not really. I love plants, and I like giving them to the people I care about. Can I go overboard? Yes. Have I? A little, sometimes. But I read somewhere that caring for plants helps people feel better. Or maybe that was dogs. Anyway, plants are easier to care for than dogs, I don’t understand what the problem is.

Anyway, I’ve felt really wonderful for the past couple days. After the night out with Baz, and then him coming to see me at work, I feel something I haven’t felt for a while. Not just content, but happy. Being happy about how things with Baz are going has given me this uplifting ability to look forward to things for the first time in a while.

Not that I wasn’t happy before Baz. How could I not be? I have a safe home with an amazing foster mum for me and my brother, I have Penny and Agatha just a few blocks away, I have a fun job and plenty of food to eat. But now that I’m seeing Baz, it’s unlocking a whole new world of happy possibilities I hadn’t considered. Like date nights and flirtatious texts and a whole new remarkable person in my life that I have feelings for, feelings I’ve never experienced before I met him.

Penny and Agatha took one look at me the day after my date with Baz and could immediately tell a difference. Penny started giggling and hugged me, and Agatha just shook her head, smiling.

“That look on your face. That is the look of a man who is well and properly screwed.” She said.

Penny pushed me away from her, holding me at arm’s length by my shoulders. “I think you’re right about that, Ags. Our Simon is falling in love.”

I blushed all the way to my ears at that, but I didn’t deny it. It’s entirely possible that I am falling in love with Baz. I don’t think I’ve ever romantically loved someone before. I loved my mum, and I love Henry and Ebb and Penny and Agatha, but this thing with Baz is different. I like him. I like him a lot.

I don’t think the feelings I have for him can be called love, but I think I could love Baz, some day. I really enjoy being around him, talking to him, _thinking_ about him. He makes me happy. And I’m most definitely attracted to him. The sound of his voice, the curve of his lips when he smiles, how he looks in tight jeans.

He’s so fucking fit.

Between going about my daily life and giddily remembering our date since it happened, I’ve been kicking myself for not kissing Baz when I had the chance at the end of the night.

He was right there, lingering in front of his door. We were still holding hands, and his stunning grey eyes were hooded as he smiled at me. I should have kissed him. I wanted to kiss him, so badly.

But I’ve never kissed a man before. Really, I’ve only ever kissed one person before: Agatha. And that was years ago, in school, and it was awkward, and tense and we were just kids but we both knew it wasn’t that great. We only kissed a handful of times before we decided we were better as friends.

I’m a little terrified of kissing Baz. I don’t know if it would be all that different from kissing a girl, but that’s not what’s really bothering me. This desperate urge to kiss him is something I never felt with Agatha. I worry that I want it too much and when I finally go to do it, I’ll mess it up somehow. Like maybe I’ll accidentally cut his lip with my teeth or knock our foreheads together painfully and ruin it. (And worse than that, I was worried that kissing him right after the first date would seem too forward.)

Kissing Baz seems like it has to be perfect. Usually, I’m pretty good at not thinking about things, but this is something I haven’t been able to get off my mind. _Baz_ himself is something I can’t not think about.

He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met before, and he’s so wonderful I almost can’t believe he’s real, and he likes _me_. He knows that I’m clumsy and bad with words, and I kept stepping on his feet when we danced, but he likes me.

When I kiss him (if this is a when situation), it has to be perfect. Because it’s Baz.

So I am going to kiss him…eventually. As soon as I work up the nerve and the moment is right. Maybe on our next date. That seems better, I think.

Shortly after Henry came to The Thrifty Tea Rose after school like he always does, Baz left because my breaktime was up. I helped him carry his box of scones and his new plant out of the shop and he left in an Uber back to his flat.

Before he got in the car, he turned to me and smiled. When Baz smiles, it transforms his face, which when expressionless can be rather cold. His face turns into something softer, and warmer and even more stunning when he smiles. His smiles are gifts. I always feel accomplished when I get him to smile, and I think it’s a shame he doesn’t seem to do it more often.

Then he said, “Let me know when you have an evening available soon. I’m planning our next date.”

I nodded and could hardly get more than a flustered “Uh, goodbye!” out before he got in the car and it pulled away.

Baz wants to go on another date with me, and it’s still kind of blowing my mind. I wonder what he’ll pick. Hopefully not something too posh. I wouldn’t know how to handle myself and I’d hate to embarrass him.

I wonder if going ahead and telling him I’m free for another date this Saturday would be too much. I just want to see him again so badly. I’m free most evenings. Ebb always takes Henry to his counseling appointments since she’s technically his legal guardian, and The Thrifty Tea Rose doesn’t stay open after five pm. Really, the only nighttime activity I have is fighting. I think I’m scheduled this Friday night. So, Saturday is really the best option. (For seeing Baz again as soon as possible.)

“—Simon. Simon. _Simon_ , hello!” Henry bounces his red rubber ball into my gut, finally gaining my attention.

I fumble with the ball, torn from my romantic thoughts. “Sorry, what?”

It’s after dinner, and Henry was helping me with the dishes. I look down and realize I’ve done them all and have just been staring into the empty sink like a numpty.

Henry rolls his eyes and holds out his hands, asking for the ball back. I toss it to him. He rolls it between his palms and looks at me like he does the Sunday morning newspaper crossword puzzle. Studiously trying to figure me out.

“You should call him.” He says.

I almost wish I had the ball in my hands, just so I could do something with them. “What?”

“Baz. That’s who you’re thinking about, yeah? Just call him. He won’t mind.”

Henry’s keen ability to read people so well doesn’t usually freak me out, but now I’m worried that my feelings are too obvious. Do I have _Falling for Baz_ written on my forehead? Can Baz see it?

“How do—how do you know?” I wrap my arms around myself.

He shrugs and starts walking to his room, bouncing his ball as he goes. “Your boyfriend is hard to read, but I think there are cracks in his mask when he’s with you. Call him, it’ll make both of you happy.”

I decide to follow Henry’s advice. He may be nine years old, but he’s smart. And I really want to hear Baz’s voice again. He has a lovely voice. All deep and posh and effortlessly captivating.

Something Henry said registers in my brain just as he’s shutting his bedroom door. He likes to do his homework alone and undisturbed; it helps him focus.

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Yet!” Henry shouts back. His door closes behind him.

Deciding not to engage any more in that, I go to my own room, lie down on my bed, and pull out my phone. It’s later in the evening, almost eight o’ clock. Baz and I have never talked on the phone together before. I like phone calls, at least with Penny. I hope I’m not making a mistake and that Baz isn’t busy as I pull up his contact and slowly press the call button, biting my lip.

He picks up in two rings.

“Snow?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s me. My name is Simon, you know. Snow’s my middle name.” I don’t know why I’m bringing this up now. Maybe just to have something to say.

There’s a low rustling on the other end. I wonder what Baz does at this time of day.

“I know, I just refuse to let go of the fact that your middle name is Snow. You sound like a bloody fairy tale character.” His words hold no bite to them, and I find myself smiling.

“Isn’t your last name Pitch? That sounds like a real villainous name you know.” I’m being cheeky, happy I can keep up with his wit for just a moment.

“Oh, I’m well aware. I’m practically destined to be a villain, Snow. I grew up in a dark, enormous Victorian mansion, I have a widow’s peak hairline, a sad and lonely childhood. I exude villainous potential.”

I want to laugh, but the sad and lonely childhood bit is holding me up.

“What was your childhood like?” I ask, unable to help myself. What the fuck it wrong with me? I called him to schedule our next date and for some light flirting, not for an invasive conversation about his past.

The mood drops a little, I can feel it even over the phone. The easy banter we had going on is now dead in the water. Baz is silent on the other end. Fuck.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, that’s none of my business, I didn’t mean to—”

A deep breath. “No, no. It’s all right. You’re going to have to learn this at some point.”

I feel awful, like I’m forcing him to remember his bad memories. “No, I—you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I didn’t, like, call you to make you relive bad things that have happened to you, I’m so sorry.”

His voice is quiet. Soft. “Why _did_ you call me, Simon?”

It’s a simple question, but he calls me Simon, and my heart just about stops. I close my eyes, flushing with embarrassment even though he can’t see me.

“I, uh, wanted to let you know I’m free this Saturday. And also, I guess I wanted to, like, hear your voice? Is that weird?”

There’s an audible inhalation of breath, and then, “Saturday will work.” A pause. “I like hearing your voice too.”

My heart feels like it might pound out of my chest, and my face splits open with a smile I can’t stop.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“So…you won’t hang up on me then?”

He laughs a little. “No, Simon. I won’t.” His voice is deep and warm and sweet. It wraps around me like velvet. I can almost imagine his smiling lips moving around the syllables of my name.

I relax into my bed a little more and kick off my shoes. “What’re you doing?”

“I was just doing some light reading before bed. You?”

“I’m just talking to you.” I admit.

I’m almost completely sure there’s a smile in his voice when he speaks again, which makes me slightly less nervous about what he says next.

“Do you want to know about my sad, lonely childhood Simon?” I can’t tell if he’s messing with me.

I squirm uncomfortably. “I mean, yeah, I want to know more about you, but if you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about it right now, you don’t have to.” It all comes out quickly, and I hold my breath for his reply.

His voice is still soft, there’s no tense silence, more of a thoughtful one. “It’s all right, I don’t mind talking to you about it. It was a long time ago; it’s gotten somewhat less painful.”

“Okay.” I breathe, relieved but still on edge because this is as personal as Baz and I have gotten so far, I think.

He sighs, and after another moment, I hear his voice say, “My mother passed away when I was five.” I suck in a shocked breath. “There was a fire at her work. She was a teacher, and she lived on the campus during the school year and I lived there with her. I don’t remember much about the fire, thankfully. I was fine, but she didn’t survive.” His voice is just the slightest bit tremulous. I don’t know how he can talk about this so solemnly.

My heart breaks. My throat gets tight and my eyes sting with tears, because I know exactly what that’s like, to lose a parent. A mother.

“Oh, Baz, I’m so…I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.” I say, praying I don’t sound on the verge of sobbing.

“Thank you.” He takes in a shaky breath, and I wonder if he’s about to cry as well. “After that, my father kind of shut down. He was so depressed and heartbroken he could hardly take care of me. My aunt Fiona came to live with us the Christmas after the accident. Father forgot to put out presents from Father Christmas, he was so lost in grief. I thought I’d been very bad that year.”

“I’m sorry.” I say again, knowing it does next to nothing to help.

“It’s all right.” Baz’s voice is gentle, he sounds more put-together. “Fiona gave me a stuffed Paddington Bear and things gradually got better. My father overcame his grief and married Daphne when I was ten. I know he still misses my mother—we all do—but he’s gotten better.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” My voice wobbles, and it’s painfully obvious I’m still terribly emotional, when Baz sounds mostly steady now.

“Simon? Are you all right?” Oh Christ.

I throw my free arm over my eyes and let my tears soak into the skin of the crook of my elbow.

“Yeah, sorry. I just…” I take a deep breath. Baz has shared something really personal and painful about his past, about him. I should do the same, since I practically dragged this out of him. And he’s right. We’ll have to know these things about each other eventually. That thought gives me the courage to dive into my own sob story.

I clear my throat. “I, uh, know what that’s like. Losing your mother.”

The phone is silent and then there’s a cautious, “You do?” His voice is like the flutter of a bird’s wing. So quiet, so soft.

“Yeah.” I swallow, then take the leap, get it over with. “My mum died in childbirth when she had Henry. I was eleven, and she raised me, and…she didn’t get to…she never got to meet Henry.”

“Simon, I am so sorry. That must have been so awful, I…” He sniffs, sounding like he’s about to cry. “Christ. I’m sorry, Simon.” The tremble is back in his voice, and I’m almost glad that we did this over the phone, so I wouldn’t have to see the pity in his eyes, and he wouldn’t see it in mine either. I don’t think Baz likes being pitied any more than I do.

I let a few more tears fall, because I can’t not cry when I think about my mother dying, even after all this time, and then I try to pull myself together. I wipe my face with my sheet and close my eyes.

“God, I hate that we have this in common. It sucks.” I say.

Baz laughs a sad laugh. “Indeed, it does.” I hiccup and laugh a little too.

“Sorry for getting all teary. I can’t stop myself when I think about her.”

Baz’s voice is stern and sharp, startling me a bit. “Don’t you dare be sorry, Simon. It’s perfectly fine to cry, you should never feel bad about it.”

“Okay.” I all but croak. Ebb says that to me all the time, but to hear Baz say it hits me differently.

“Hey, where do you think I should put the mazus plant?” He asks after a moment or two of silence in which I assume he’s collecting himself like I am. I appreciate the subject change like I would a breath of fresh air.

“Probably somewhere it will get partial shade. Near a window, maybe?”

“I think I’ve got a spot somewhere by a window that will work. And how much should I water it again?” His voice dips into that sarcastic Baz tone that I adore. “I tried to muddle through your napkin directions, but they’re absolutely illegible. You write like my little brother, and he’s a toddler.”

I giggle, because I can’t argue with him on that. Penny has told me on many occasions that my handwriting is a mess. Henry can kind of make it out, but even he has told me that I’m hopeless in that department.

“Every day. Just make sure you don’t overwater it and that the soil drains well. The roots don’t like sitting in water.”

“Got it. I will do my best to not drown this plant.” He sounds so determined in his mission. It’s so fucking cute.

“Good, because I expect regular updates on this plant.” I mimic his serious tone, and it makes him laugh his deep, delicious-sounding laugh. Even his fucking laughter is fit, for Christ’s sake.

“I’ll do my best, Simon.”

**Baz**

Simon confirms that this Saturday he’s available for our second date, and then we hang up the call. He’s got work in the morning, and I have classes.

After I’ve put my phone down, I’m hit with a wave of tiredness and raw emotion. When Simon called me tonight, I wasn’t expecting for us to hash out our mothers’ deaths over the phone.

My heart hurts. For my mother and for his. And for Simon’s life after his mother died. Because if I'm guessing correctly, he didn’t have any other family to support him and Henry after his mother was gone. At least I had Fiona, but he had no one. I didn’t ask what happened to him and Henry after their mother died. We’ve already dredged up so much heartache tonight, I didn’t want to unearth anything else yet. I assume he and Henry went into care. It must have been horrible for them; I can’t even imagine it.

I feel vulnerable, like I’ve lost a protective layer of something. I talk about my mother often, with my father and Fiona. But we don’t talk about her death. I haven’t told anyone about it in a long time. And I’m glad I told Simon, I am. I’m glad he told me about his mother’s death too, I just feel so raw now. Like I’ve reopened a wound, or like something has scoured through me and left everything stinging and bare. And now I have this new hurt, this new twinge in my chest for Simon and what he’s been through.

It breaks my heart. Between talking about my mother and hearing about his, I was brought very nearly to tears. Perhaps a few slipped out, but I mostly held it together. I didn’t want to fall apart over the phone, didn’t want to become a sobbing mess and give my crush an audio experience of my crying noises. I still very much need to cry though. I don’t do it often, but when I get to the point where it could happen, I usually need to let it out.

I don’t want to be alone in my flat right now. I can’t. I leave my flat and take the stairs down to Fiona’s. I let myself in with the key she gave me.

She’s awake, because of course she is. She’s smoking a cigarette at her kitchen table, drinking tea and listening to old punk rock music on a low volume.

Fiona’s flat is not one of my favorite places. Although its floor plan is just like mine, it’s messy, and over decorated with music posters and things, and she has the tackiest black and white striped couch. But on one wall in her living room there’s this large framed photograph of her and my mother and me. It was taken the day Fiona graduated high school, in front of my ancestral home. I’m just a baby in the photo, probably only a year or two old, and my mother is holding me with one arm, and the other is draped over Fiona’s shoulder. Fiona is holding her diploma and is wearing a cap and gown.

They’re smiling the same sharp smile I know I have, and Fiona’s white streak of hair is falling into her face. Their skin is the same reddish gold, and my mother’s hair is dark and long and loose around her shoulders, and their eyes gleam grey like mine. My mother’s with wisdom and pride, my aunt’s with mischief and happiness. I think I’m asleep in my mother’s arms, one of my chubby baby legs dangling.

It’s a great photo. I can’t remember it being taken, but I love it. I imagine my mother was so proud of Fiona. Education was very important to my mother. They look so happy.

I’ve always looked more like my mother than my father. I got her eyes, and her hair, and her skin. Fiona and Father say that I act just like her. Sometimes I think part of why my father neglected to be a father to me for a long time is because I remind him so much of his dead wife.

I don’t say a word to Fiona when I come in. I just sit down on her hideous sofa, stare at the picture on the wall for a moment, and then drop my head in my hands with a choked-off sob. I hear her put out her cigarette and then she’s beside me, arms wrapping around my shoulders.

Fiona’s a shit, and she mocks me constantly, but if there’s one thing she understands, it’s missing my mother. She’s a ridiculous woman, truly, but I love her. And she knows when to shut the fuck up and let me cry on her shoulder, even though I’m twenty. Because she never stopped missing my mother either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself cry writing this


	14. Alternate Perspectives on Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two little angsty scenes from Henry and then Fiona's points of view.

**Henry**

Simon doesn’t realize how thin the wall between our bedrooms is. Simon doesn’t realize a lot of things.

I heard him talking on the phone with Baz like I told him to. I heard him crying. I didn’t expect him to talk to a virtual stranger about our mum.

_“She never got to meet Henry.”_

We talk about her a lot. Or, at least Simon does. Simon actually remembers her.

We have a few pictures of her. Of Lucy. Mostly of her and Simon when he was little. There’s one with just her, sitting in a freshly planted flower bed in front of a modest little house where she raised Simon for the first decade of his life.

I have that picture in my room, in a little frame on my desk. She had curly, long blond hair, and blue eyes like me and Simon. She wasn’t a dainty woman. Her big shoulders are evident even in the photo. Simon told me she played rugby when she was young. She had lots of freckles, and she was pretty.

I can’t remember her. All I know is what Simon has told me. He says we were her rosebud boys, but I think that’s more him than me. I never met our mum. She met Simon, she raised Simon, and she loved Simon, because who wouldn’t love Simon?

I wonder sometimes if she’d love me, if she were still alive. If I hadn’t killed her. She was Simon’s mum, and then I came along and killed her. There’s no way around it. She never got to be my mum, and I took her away from Simon too.

Sometimes I’m afraid I’m just like Davy. He hurt people. I hurt people.

I hear Simon hang up his phone, and then thump around his room getting ready for bed. When I hear him settle into his bed, I wait a few minutes before slipping into his room to sleep with him. I don’t like being alone.

He lets me snuggle up beside him, just like he always has. His arm goes around my shoulders, and he kisses the top of my head. “G’night Henry.” He says sleepily. I listen to his breathing deepen as he falls asleep.

Simon is my favorite person in the world, right next to Ebb. (Penny and Agatha are close behind.) But Simon is sturdy. He’s always been so strong, and so brave, and for as long as I can remember he has kept me safe. He’s always taken care of me, protected me without a second thought. And he knows me more than anyone else; he doesn’t mind that I’m strange.

But when he looks at me with his eyes that are just like Lucy’s, I wonder if he hates me, even just a little bit, for taking her away from him. If he had a choice between still having his mother instead of me, would he choose her?

I feel like such a burden to him. To everyone.

I’ve never told anyone about it. Not Simon, not Ebb, not my therapist.

I don’t want to make more trouble.

**Fiona**

This boy is so much like Natasha that it hurts. It hits me in the big, empty place inside my heart that she hollowed out when she died.

He has her face. And the same deep imperiousness in his voice. And just like her, he knows exactly how bloody intelligent he is and won’t let anyone forget it.

I thank everything that doesn’t fucking suck in this world that this kid survived the fire. And that he’s more like Natasha than Malcom, that moron. My sister definitely married down, and I’ll never let Malcom forget that, but I am grateful to him for his part in Baz’s existence.

Baz is the last Pitch heir, and the only reminder of my sister left in the whole world. I’d do just about anything for him. (And I have; I lived in that bloody mansion for five years after Nat died and Malcom couldn’t keep it together).

My nephew wordlessly sobs into my shoulder for a good half hour, and I let him, because I have a pretty good idea what he’s crying about. This is why he comes to me. I’m well-acquainted with this acute kind of grief.

After he’s done, I get him a water bottle and a blanket, because the poor kid is always freezing. I don’t know when I got so soft. It’s disgusting. But I’m all he’s got in this city. All he’s got left of Natasha, too. (And isn’t that just fucking awful?)

“Thank you.” He says, voice wrecked from crying. I nod and sit back down beside him. He drinks the water and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“I meant to ask how your date with Snow went. Was he good?” I ask after a few minutes while Baz rehydrates himself and takes deep, calming breaths. I’ve been curious ever since I saw Snow all cleaned up in the lift.

He smiles Natasha’s smile and looks down at the floor. “Yeah, he was.”

I groan and lean back, swinging my feet up onto my coffee table. “I’d say I’m glad to hear it, but you know my feelings on that boy. He’s dangerous.”

Baz sneers at me, despite his eyes and nose still being red from crying his eyes out a few minutes ago.

“I’m aware, Fiona. I am an adult, however, and I can take care of myself. And Snow isn’t what you think he is. He’s…” Baz looks away, and his face gets softer. “Sweet.”

I remember seeing Simon Snow fight in that grimy ring, see in my mind’s eye what he can do to a person when he feels like it. It even made me nervous. But if Baz feels safe… if Baz can call that kid with the split knuckles and bloody mouth “sweet” then maybe Snow’s reputation as a psychopath is just a gimmick for his fighting career.

“Just be careful.” I tell him. “And if he’s worthy of what you think of him, I’m happy for you.”

My nephew leans back and shuts his eyes. His lips twitch as he smiles—he’s smiling wider than he means to. “Thanks, Fi.”


	15. Old Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz has a chat with Penny. Simon has a panic attack and a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Simon does have a panic attack in this chapter, and it's kind of rough.  
> Big thank you to everyone who has left kudos and such sweet and encouraging comments on this fic! I suck at replying and am terrified of talking to people, but I want ya'll to know that I read all the comments and very much appreciate them!

**Baz**

Penelope Bunce is a fucking genius.  
Today after class, she suggested going to The Thrifty Tea Rose for lunch and some light studying and I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. The woman is brilliant.  
Our last class runs a little long, so we get to the shop just after the lunch rush. Which means Simon has time to talk to us while he goes around bussing tables and cleaning up. Bunce and I drink the tea and eat the sandwiches he makes us, our textbooks on the table in front of us, forgotten.  
Simon and Penny are taking turns telling me stories about when they were in high school together, and my stomach nearly hurts from laughing so much. (Apparently, Penny dyed her hair different colours every year, and Simon went through an unfortunate phase where he threw himself into drama club.)  
Penny is taking great delight in telling embarrassing tales of adolescent Simon. I’m hanging off her every word.  
“For some stupid reason, Simon takes the class guinea pig—Mr. Squeaky—home, and like ten minutes after he gets home, he calls me and says, ‘Pen, I lost the fucking pig.’” Penny loses it for a second, dissolving into giggles.  
She’s leaned over the table, enthusiastically waving her hands as she tells the story. Simon is behind the counter, cleaning the coffeemaker, his face a lovely shade of embarrassed red. I’m just trying to contain my laughter, so I don’t start howling in the middle of a public place, though the shop is empty but for us and Simon’s boss, who is in the back.  
Penny manages to get herself under control and continues with the story.  
“So I go back, and Ebb’s whole flat has been completely destroyed, and Simon and Henry are desperately looking for this poor little guinea pig, and I fucking knew that that exact thing would happen from the start—”  
“Oh you did not!” Simon interrupts, trying to hold back laughter despite himself. “And it wasn’t that bad! I just put it down for like a second and looked away and then it was fucking gone! It wasn’t my fault!”  
“Yes, it was, you lost the damn thing almost immediately!”  
“I did not! It ran off!”  
“Because you let it!”  
I let them bicker for a moment before butting in. “Please tell me you found this rodent. Or is it still loose in Ebb’s flat, living off crumbs and hiding under the sofa?” I’m so amused I can’t even attempt to bite back my smile.  
“We found it!” Simon blusters, turning redder.  
Penny leans back in her seat and pushes her glasses up her nose smugly. “Eventually. It took us a while to locate it—it was behind the bookcase against the wall, too far back to reach. We had to lure it out with carrots.”  
“And it was perfectly fine.” Simon says. Penny shakes her head.  
“Uh, no, that’s not true. You lost Mr. Squeaky two other times that weekend. It’s a wonder someone didn’t accidentally sit on him.” She turns to me, a maniacal grin on her face. “Every time it happened, he’d call me in a panic, on the brink of tears about the fate of this guinea pig.”  
“Penny, come on,” Simon whines, covering his face with his hands. “Why do we have to relive this?”  
Bunce takes a leisurely sip of her tea before saying, “Because it’s hilarious, Simon. And you’re the one who brought up my goth phase, so you deserve it.”  
Simon groans as he starts piling cups and plates into his arms. “Just please let the Mr. Squeaky story die.”  
His best friend has no sympathy. “Never.”  
He groans again, drawing out the sound so it can be heard as he ducks into the back room, presumably to put the dishes in a dishwasher.  
Penny laughs as he goes, then turns to me, swiping a long dark curl out of her face. “So Baz, where did you go to school as a kid?”  
“Mm.” I drink the last of my tea, stalling. Simon comes back and starts cleaning the counter with a rag. He looks at me expectantly, having heard Penny’s question.  
“I was privately tutored when I was a young child, and then I went to a remote boarding school when I got older. I don’t have any good stories to tell about it, unfortunately.”  
“Of course you went to boarding school. Did you have uniforms? Was it in a castle?” Penny jibes.  
I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t fucking Hogwarts, Bunce, we weren’t in a bloody castle. But yes, there were uniforms. It was very strict. Though, my mother was a teacher there, so I occasionally got away with things other boys didn’t.”  
Snow gives me a look of pure sympathy and understanding, and I wish Bunce wasn’t here so I could leap over the counter and hug him like I’ve wanted to ever since we opened up over the phone and talked about our mothers. We haven’t really talked about it. About all that vulnerability and heartbreak and pain we shared with one another. But the way he’s looking at me now lets me know he doesn’t regret it. Neither do I.  
Penny asks, “What did you do?”  
I’m still focused on Simon. On his big, earnest blue eyes and his perfect pink lips.  
“Pardon?” I try to pay attention to Bunce. It’s hard to pay attention to anything when Simon looks at me. Hell, when Simon’s in the general vicinity I almost can’t help but be wholly focused on him.  
“What did you do at your posh boarding school that you got away with?” Penny reiterates.  
“Oh,” I reach up and absently tighten the band holding my hair in a little bun at the back of my neck. “I just smoked usually. And kissed boys in broom closets.”  
“Cliché.” Penny snorts.  
“You smoke?” Simon asks.  
“I used to. I haven’t lately. I’m trying to quit, or Daphne will guilt me to death.”  
“Hmm.” Simon hums, crouching to dig under the counter for something. He rises again with a watering can, and smiles at Penny and I.  
“Um, I’ve got to water some plants. I’ll be right back.” He goes to the back room again and emerges a minute or so later, this time with water in the watering can. Penny finally looks at her textbook, but I can’t even think about studying, I’m too busy watching Simon work.  
He’s in a tight tee shirt and apron again, and I’m admiring the curve of his waist (and the shape of his arse in his slightly ragged jeans, sue me) as he goes around, inspecting blooms and leaves and vines. He smiles adorably when he sees a plant doing well, and when he comes across the occasional wilted leaf, his brow wrinkles in a frown and his bottom lip sticks out in a pout. I want to go to him and wrap my arms around his waist, kiss the moles on his neck while he tends to the plants, rest my chin on one of his strong shoulders. I want him to lean into me and tilt his head back to look at me, blink his short lashes and smile that beautiful smile at me. And then I want to kiss him. For a very long time.  
I’ve been dreaming about what his lips feel like. And I’ve decided that I’m going to find out very soon.  
I have our whole date planned out for Saturday. I’m taking him out for dinner at my favorite curry place—I knew that right away. I’m terribly picky about my food, but this place is up to my standards. And Simon loves food, so I’m confident he’ll appreciate it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Simon Salisbury, it’s that he loves food. I cannot take him on a date where some kind of edible offering is not involved.  
The second part of our date is where I was drawing a blank. It’s hard to top Simon’s bold activity for our first date. Though even if I haven’t topped it, I’m sure I’ve at least equaled it. (Simon’s fascination with plants inspired me.)  
For our second date, I’m taking Simon to a moon garden. It’s a little out of the way, but by the time I plan for us to get there, the sun should be going down. I’ve been obsessively checking weather predictions—luckily, it’s looking to be a clear night so far, if a little cool. And the moon will be almost full. I want Simon to be absolutely dazzled.  
I want to hold his hand and watch his face in the moonlight. (I am a roaring homosexual, and I’ve known this about myself for most of my life, but that is quite possibly one of the gayest things I’ve ever thought.) I’m planning on spending the night leeching Snow’s excessive body heat and listening to him stumble over his words while he tells me about plants. And hopefully there will be a moment somewhere in the garden when I can finally kiss him.  
In true Penelope fashion, Bunce crashes into my romantic daydreaming.  
“You two are unbelievable.”  
I snap my eyes away from Simon—a tragedy—and glare at her. “What happened to not meddling in our relationship, Bunce?”  
“This isn’t meddling. I’m just observing.”  
Something occurs to me. I’ve never thought to ask Bunce about this. “Do you have a boyfriend, Bunce? Or a girlfriend?”  
She wrinkles her nose at my bluntness, predictably, but her eyes sparkle with…something. Something terribly familiar, especially to me.  
“Well…” She glances over at Simon, who is heading to the back room to refill his watering can. When he’s gone, she absently twirls a piece of her hair and bashfully looks at me.  
“There’s this guy I met one of my study groups. He’s really annoying, actually, but he’s kind of been growing on me lately.” She smiles, and it’s a smile I haven’t seen on her before. It’s similar to the way she looks at Simon, and even me occasionally, but it’s different.  
There’s a decidedly different sparkle in her eyes, and the eagerness in that smile shapes her lips in a different way. If someone before now had asked me to describe how Penelope Bunce would look in the midst of a crush, I would not have been able to come up with anything, but here we are. Bunce likes someone. A lot, by the looks of it.  
She’s twisting that large amethyst ring she always wears around and around on her finger.  
“I like him. I haven’t really told anyone about him yet, because it’s not really anything to talk about. We text sometimes, but that’s it.” Her eyes dart to the door to the back room, and she looks a little guilty now.  
“Not even Simon knows. And we have a no-secrets pact, and I feel really bad I haven’t told him about Shep yet, but…I guess I’m just…cautious, you know?”  
I tilt my head to the side. Simon has told me about their “no-secrets pact” before, and my impression was that they both took it incredibly seriously.  
“Why?”  
Penny takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, cheeks puffing out with the effort. “When I was in high school, I dated the same guy for a while. We made it past graduation, and thought it was fine, but…” She looks down and to the side, and frowns. “It wasn’t. When Micah dumped me, I was heartbroken for a long time. I didn’t think anyone could ever love me. Simon was there for me through all of it. And ever since, he’s been really protective of me. I just don’t want to tell him or Agatha about Shep until I’m really sure about this.”  
“Hmm.” I cross one leg over the other and lean back in my seat. “Understandable. Just don’t keep it from him for too long. He just wants you to be happy. I can’t imagine Snow getting upset as long as this Shep is good for you.”  
Penny nods, but she still looks troubled. “I know. And Shep is a good guy. This thing with him is very different than what I had with Micah. I just want to be sure.” She looks at me, brows furrowed worriedly.  
“Please don’t tell Simon about this, okay? I’ll tell him as soon as I’m ready.”  
“All right.” Penny and Simon’s friendship is something I never want to come between, but I don’t want to betray Penny’s trust.  
Simon comes back out into the shop and continues watering plants. He shoots a smile at Penny and I and we both smile back.  
Her lips press into a thin line when Simon’s back is turned.  
“He has another fight this Friday. Has he talked to you about it? The fighting?”  
The sudden change in subject has me reeling, as does the reminder of how I first met Simon. It’s so easy to forget that he fights people for money. I don’t look at him and see violence. I see Simon. A gentle, funny, devastatingly handsome man.  
I’ve seen him break someone’s nose, but I’ve also felt those same hands carefully guide me to dance in a warm pub. As soon as the bruise on his face faded, it was all too easy for me to forget about him fighting.  
Penny is looking at me anxiously, biting her lip.  
I lower my voice. “No, he hasn’t talked about it. Why does he fight?”  
She looks down, disappointed. “I don’t know, Baz. He doesn’t need the money that badly. And he exercises at the gym plenty. He used to fight a lot when we were kids, but I don’t think he likes it that much. I don’t know why he’s still doing this.”  
I blink, surprised. “He did?” I suppose the faded scars I’ve seen on Snow’s knuckles had to have come from somewhere.  
“Yeah.” She looks back up at me, eyes wide behind her glasses. “He hasn’t told you?”  
I feel uncomfortable now. Out of my depth. A little embarrassed. “No, he hasn’t.”  
Bunce must read my thoughts on my face—it’s been harder to hide what I’m feeling and thinking around her lately, she’s so fucking sharp—and reaches across the table to rest her small dark hand on top of mine.  
“Hey, don’t feel bad. Simon doesn’t like to just come right out with all the rough parts of his past. He’ll get to it in his own time, I promise.”  
I nod, try to appear less worried than I feel. Penny doesn’t buy it for a second.

**Simon**

The worst part of going off is coming out of it.  
I don’t know who first described what I do in the ring as “going off” but it’s stuck. Someone saw me fighting in that grubby basement and put a name to something that I’ve done countless times when I’ve been hit too hard or when I’m uncontrollably angry and something in me just snaps.  
I remember it happening in the homes when I was a kid, when someone bothered Henry or pushed me too far. My brain would stop thinking, and I’d just beat whoever triggered me into a bloody pulp. All the other boys thought I was mental. I think most of the people who watch me fight now think I’m mental too.  
When I go off, I can’t really feel anything but fury and a strong instinct to fight, to violently defend myself. And when that wears off—when there’s no one left to hit, when the adrenaline and anger seep out of me—I feel hollow. Like a building with all it’s insides blown out by a bomb. I really do feel mental in the aftermath of going off. (I feel like a monster.) I feel like my skin should be smoking, like my breath should be fire.  
Going off sucks. It helps me win fights most of the time, but it’s brutal. On me, yes, but especially on my opponent. I never feel good after I go off on someone.  
I fought again tonight. I went off. The bloke I was matched with managed to knock me down—which I didn’t really mind, until he spit on my face and called me a twat. That’s when I went off, I think. My memory gets blurry after that, I can only remember supercuts of the fight later. I think I probably bruised one of the other guy’s ribs with my knee. I definitely hit him in the face. A lot, if the bruised and swollen state of his eyes and nose when the announcer called the fight were anything to go by.  
I can’t tell if it makes me feel better or worse when I come out of fights relatively unscathed. This match only gave me a few bruises on my torso and some split knuckles, which are kind of self-inflicted when I think about it.  
I’m in the cramped employee bathroom behind the bar above the ring. There’s a sink in there I use after fights to clean up a bit before I go home. I don’t need to let Henry see the blood that tends to splatter and smear on my skin when I fight.  
One of the bartenders always gives me a rag that ends up tinted red when I’m done with it. The water swirling down the drain is the same disgusting coppery colour.  
Back out in the bar, I keep my head down and wait for someone to come and hand me the winnings for tonight’s fight. More people than I’d like compliment me on my technique tonight, and I feel sick.  
Maybe there was a time when I was a dumb kid where I took pride in being good at this. It was how I protected Henry, how I defended myself. Now it’s something I don’t like to think about. I stare at the floor and try to think about nothing.  
Finally, one of the people from downstairs hands me two hundred pounds and I zip it into my bag before making a bee line to the exit. I don’t acknowledge anyone who says my name or looks in my direction. This fight wasn’t a terrible fight—I’ve certainly had worse—but my skin is itchy and hot and I just want to go home and shower and eat biscuits on the sofa with Henry while we watch his cartoons. I don’t want to be here anymore.  
Tonight is a shitty night where I don’t even have the luxury of feeling drained after I go off. I feel like I could go off again. I’m twitchy and irritable yet bone-achingly tired at the same time, and it reminds me of being in the homes, where there was nothing to do but fight and be hungry. Christ, I’m starving right now.  
The cool autumn air washes over me when I push my way out of the front door, and it dulls some of the buzzing heat coursing through me, but I know I won’t feel quite right until I’m back home, drinking tea that Ebb made, Henry curled into my side.  
I kick a plastic bottle that’s been discarded on the sidewalk as I turn in the direction of home. Someone touches my shoulder, and I hear a “Snow, wait up—”  
I don’t think. I just whip around and grab the arm that touched me, instinctively slamming the person up against the chipped brick of the bar front, my sore forearm pressed forcefully to their chest to keep them there. My other arm is raised, hand already curled into a fist  
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I snarl, feeling like a lit fuse.  
“WHOA, WHOA!” Through the red fury that’s taken over my senses for the second time tonight, I recognize the voice.  
I blink the haze away, breathing heavily as I focus on the person I’ve pinned to the wall. It’s Dev, struggling to catch his breath, dark eyes wide as they look up at me in fear. And beside me is Niall, tugging on my arm in a useless attempt to get me to free his boyfriend.  
Niall looks properly spooked too, and the panic in his voice— “Simon, take it easy, he didn’t mean to scare you!”—shocks me out of my rage. I inhale a ragged breath and drop my arms, stumbling away from Dev.  
He slumps down to the ground, rubbing the middle of his chest. “What the fuck, Snow?” He wheezes. Niall kneels by his side, putting an arm protectively around his shoulders. They both look up at me. Hurt, scared, confused.  
My lungs feel like they aren’t getting enough air, and my skin feels damp and cold, my heart feels like it could shudder out of my chest.  
“I—I’m sorry, fuck—I didn’t mean to!” My voice is some breathless, broken thing bubbling up from my throat, and I hate it. I keep gasping for air, keep trying to breathe normally and it’s not working.  
I feel like a monster. I hurt Dev, I scared the shit out of him and Niall—Christ, the way they’re looking at me. Oh God, they hate me now. I considered them almost-friends, and now I’ve ruined it. And what will Baz think when they tell him? I attacked his cousin; he’s going to hate me. I hate me. I’ve ruined everything. Again. (Am I like him now? Have I always been?)  
“—Snow! Come back, Snow. Simon!” Niall’s voice makes me look up, and I realize I’ve been clutching my head in my hands, sobbing apologies into my palms. I’ve been crying.  
Dev and Niall are back on their feet, standing in front of me. They look scared still, but it’s a different scared. Their foreheads are wrinkled in worry. Dev’s hand in hanging in the air between us, like he wants to touch me but doesn’t want to startle me again.  
I can’t speak. All the words and air and emotions are clogged in my throat. I feel lucky I can even breathe these short, painful breaths I’m taking. Everything hurts, and all I can think is that I hurt someone. I hurt Dev, and I’ve done so much worse to so many others and I’m just like my dad, aren’t I? Losing my temper, going insane, hurting people.  
“Dev, we’ve got to get him out of here.” Niall is saying, and I remember that we’re still outside of the bar, and the people inside are starting to look. I wonder if they’re right, thinking I’m mental. I feel mental.  
Suddenly, Dev and Niall are on opposite sides of me. Niall’s skinny arm goes around my back and they’re leading me somewhere. I can hardly see, can hardly think.  
“Deep breaths, mate. In and out, slowly.” Dev is saying. I try to follow his direction. I think I’m still crying, but I’m breathing somewhat better.  
I try to focus on that. Vaguely, I can tell that Dev and Niall are taking me somewhere. I can hear their voices, low and calming.  
“I think I scared him. Shouldn’t have grabbed him like that, I suppose.” Dev says.  
“He didn’t mean to. I think you’re right, you just scared him a bit.”  
They take me away from the bar. We walk quietly for a few minutes. I slowly start to come back to myself. My temperature gets back to normal; I stop crying and shaking. We end up in a 24-hour diner. Suddenly I’m sitting in a little booth across from Dev and Niall, and a waiter is pouring us glasses of water and cups of tea.  
“Do you want anything to eat, Simon?” Niall asks, passing me a laminated menu. At the mention of food, my hunger comes roaring back. I order a probably unhealthy amount of breakfast food. It comes out quickly—we’re mostly alone in the diner.  
I dig in, uncaring that I have an audience. I shove scrambled eggs with mushrooms on toast, fatty sausage and bacon, syrupy pancakes and rolls with orange marmalade into my mouth. Dev and Niall eat some too, but mostly they just sip their drinks and watch me go. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.  
When I’m slowing down, taking breaks between bites for the first time in fifteen minutes, I wipe my mouth on a napkin and look up at Niall and Dev.  
“Sorry.” I say. It’s the only thing I can say.  
Niall leans his head on Dev’s shoulder and yawns. “For eating like you’ve never seen food before?”  
I ignore him and look at Dev as much as I can, ashamed. “For attacking you. I’m not…I wasn’t thinking.” I rub the back of my neck. I can’t look in his eyes. “Did I hurt you?”  
Dev shakes his head. “No, I’m alright. You didn’t do any damage. It was just a bit of a shock. Are you okay, Snow?” His voice is light and easy, but I can hear concern in it.  
I look up, and both of them are looking at me, waiting for an answer. I busy myself with stacking empty plates for the waiter to take away and clear my throat.  
“Yeah, I’m, uh, I’m fine. Just sorry. For everything.”  
“It’s all right, Snow.” Dev says. It’s right now that I notice how nicely they’re both dressed. Dev is wearing a button-down shirt and pressed slacks, and Niall is…well, dressed like Niall, but his clothes seem nicer than usual. His face is done up in flawless makeup, and they both smell like cologne.  
I’ve gone and fucked up their date.  
“Shit. You two are on a date, aren’t you?” I put my head in my hands. “Shit. Sorry.”  
Niall waves his hand lazily. “Don’t worry about that, Simon. We were just about to go home and shag anyway, you didn’t interrupt anything but our walk home.”  
Dev turns bright red and coughs into his fist. Niall smirks at him, then turns back to me.  
“So…” Niall looks at me, pressing his lips together. “Can we talk about what happened yet?”  
“Um.” I look down at my lap and fold my hands together. “I…Dev grabbed me and I just kind of—”  
“You acted on instinct, yeah. That, I understand. What I can’t quite understand is the meltdown you had after that.” Niall looks at me seriously. “What’s going on with you, Simon?”  
“Oh.” I run my hand over my short hair. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like a bunch of things.”  
“Like what?” Dev prompts.  
I look at him. Figure I owe him an explanation. “Fighting is getting old, if I’m being honest. Going off hurts, and it’s hard to shake off. Which is why I freaked out when you grabbed me, Dev. I’m really sorry about that.”  
“Don’t worry about it, mate.” Dev says.  
Niall scrutinizes me for a moment, then says, “You’re not really a fighting kind of bloke, are you?”  
His question catches me off guard. I’ve never really thought about it like that. And I think he’s right.  
The person I felt like tonight—volatile and violent and angry—doesn’t really match up with the rest of me. It’s hard to reconcile the person I am normally with the person I become when I fight and go off. I can’t imagine feeling like I did tonight in other settings I find myself in. Being with my friends and family, baking and gardening and even working at The Thrifty Tea Rose makes me feel like I’m someone else. Someone good.  
“No.” I say, almost to myself. “I don’t think I am.”


	16. Love is the Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz gets ready for his date with Simon with the help of Mordelia!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from the song Crystal Blue Persuasion by Tommy James and the Shondells, which is also featured in the chapter)  
> Once again, I just want to thank everyone for reading and leaving kudos and comments on my work! I've got big things planned, I hope ya'll enjoy it.

**Baz**

For me, getting ready for any kind of outing requires serious consideration of my wardrobe.  
Usually, I’d take hours to groom and pamper myself and try on a variety of different ensembles to see what I look best in for the occasion. And I’m still doing that, absolutely. I’m a man of routine and standards. And today is no exception. I have a date with Simon tonight, and I’m nervous as hell, so I’m taking control of one of the few things I can; what I wear.  
There’s just one wrench thrown in my routine: Mordelia.  
My stepmother had errands to run in London today, and my little sister begged to come with so she could visit me. It’s entirely too sweet, and I couldn’t refuse when Daphne asked if she could drop Mordelia at my place for a few hours while she did some shopping.  
Luckily, it’s just Mordelia that went with Daphne. The other children are still in Hampshire with my father. I can only imagine the hell they’re putting him through. And Daphne said that she’ll come and get Mordelia long before I need to go get Simon for our date. I only have to watch her until then. Mordelia can be a handful, but when she has our younger siblings as backup for her nefarious schemes, it’s pure chaos.  
Mordelia has been with me since early this afternoon. We went out to lunch and I took her to the Millennium Wheel for a ride. Then we went back to my flat and I let her watch telly while I showered, shaved, and tried to figure out what to wear. But she’s discovered what I’m up to, and now the little nightmare is sitting on my bed along with the viable options from my autumn wardrobe, ceaselessly asking me questions.  
“Mum said you’re going on a date tonight. Who’s the poor bloke that has to put up with you for an evening?”  
“His name is Simon, and I assure you he is more than happy to put up with me, you insufferable little girl.” I tell her in monotone from inside my closet.   
“What’s Simon like?” Now she’s beside me, effectively scaring the shit out of me with her sudden appearance. She runs her hand along the shirts I have hung up, inspecting the patterns, most of which are floral.  
“Well he’s not a dreadfully nosy ten-year-old, so that’s one thing he’s got going for him.”  
Mordelia glares up at me, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a dusty, oversized black velvet sweater I’m sure she must have found in a chest somewhere in the manor over a pair of jeans embroidered with flowers. On her feet are a pair of mismatched Mary Janes. One is black and one is red. Daphne must have lost the battle when she tried to dress her this morning.  
I’d despair over Mordelia’s affinity for bizarre clothing choices if it wasn’t useless and if she wasn’t ten.  
“What is he like? Is he nice?” This girl is relentless.  
I sigh in defeat as I’m looking through my scarf options for the evening. “Yes, Mordelia. He is very nice.”  
“Is he gay like you?”  
I’m contemplating strangling myself with a pashmina. “He’s not gay exactly. But he does like men.”  
She sits in the corner, where the clothes I have hanging up fall right over her head. I can see her dark eyes gleaming from the shadows. “Isn’t that gay though?”  
I take a deep breath. Mordelia is a child. And she lives with my father, who would rather do just about anything else in favor of explaining sexuality to his children. Daphne does her best, but I’m really the only person who is a legitimate authority on this subject. It’s kind of my responsibility as the queer older brother to educate Mordelia on this.  
“Yes, for some people. Simon doesn’t really have a name for what he is. He’s told me that he likes men and women, but he doesn’t like to put a label on it, and that’s okay.”  
“Huh.” Mordelia thinks this over for a minute or so, leaving me to a peaceful moment in which I can focus on what shoes I want to wear. Then, she snaps back into her interrogation.  
“Have you snogged him?”  
I drop the ankle boots I was inspecting and whirl around to gape at her. “How do you know what that is?”  
She crawls out from under my hanging clothes and frowns at me. “I just do. Why wouldn’t I know what it is?”  
My mouth is hanging open and I’m blushing, trying to come up with something, anything to say. Mordelia knows exactly what she’s doing. She smirks in the conniving way I taught her (it was more endearing when she was four; now it’s downright maniacal) and gets to her feet. Her head reaches about to the middle of my ribcage.  
“You like him.” She says in a smug, singsong voice. She pokes me in the chest with one of her stubby child fingers. “You really, really like him! You wanna snog him, and marry him, and have little babies with him!” She teases.  
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow and sneer down at her, and the colour drains from her face. She knows what’s coming next.  
Before she can run away, I bend down and scoop her into my arms. She screeches and tries to wriggle away, but she’s a scrawny little thing and I’m determined.  
Back out in my bedroom, I throw her on an empty spot on my bed and pounce, ticking her with no mercy.  
Mordelia is ridiculously ticklish. After a while, I don’t even have to touch her to set her off. I just bring my fingers close to her sides and she starts shrieking with reflexive laughter.  
“Little kids who don’t mind their own business get tickle attacks. You know this.” I say unsympathetically, ceasing my efforts when she’s breathlessly begging me to stop. There are laughing tears in her eyes, and her face is bright pink. Her hair is possibly even more of a mess than it was when she got here. (Daphne must have lost the hair-brushing battle too.)  
“Baaaaaaaz,” she whines, grumpily sitting up. “Now I have to pee.”  
I roll my eyes. “Then go use the toilet, you heathen.”  
She glares at me and rolls off the bed, careful to steer clear of me, still wary of being tickled. While she’s in the bathroom, I check my phone. There’s a text from Snow, asking what he should wear for tonight.  
Baz, 3:36 pm  
Dress warm, we’re going to be outside.  
Simon <3, 3:37 pm  
okay  
should I wear a hat?  
going to wear the hat  
Simon <3, 3:38 pm  
nvrmd Henry says I look dumb in the hat  
wait I found a different hat  
Henry says this hat is less dumb, I’m wearing it  
I smile at the screen; I can’t help it. Simon has such an endearing bumbling quality about him. It never fails to make me happy.  
“Is that him?” Mordelia asks, suddenly in front of me. I drop my phone on my face with a start, and she laughs. I wonder if she sneaks up on Daphne and Father like this.  
I sit up, rubbing my nose where the phone fell. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, it was him. Also, stop sneaking up on me, it’s bloody terrifying.”  
“That’s what Dad says too. I keep hiding in his study to scare him.” She hops up onto the bed beside me.  
“Really?” I grin.  
She grins too. She has the same mouth and smile as my stepmother, but her smiles aren’t demure and polite like Daphne’s. Mordelia smiles like she’s always up to something—and she usually is.  
“Yeah. I always hide behind the curtain or under his desk. I’m not allowed in there anymore after I made him spill his brandy on the rug.”  
We both crack up. Mordelia leans her dark-haired head on my shoulder and looks at the ground.  
After a moment, she says, “I still don’t like that you don’t live at home anymore.”  
I sigh and wrap an arm around her. Her sweater smells faintly of cobwebs and mothballs—definitely something she found in the attic then.  
“I know, little puff. I miss you too.” I squeeze her to me. “But you know you can always come and visit me here, okay? And I’ll make the trip over to Hampshire whenever I can.”  
“Are you coming for Christmas?” She asks.  
“Definitely. You think I’d let you get all the presents?”  
She snorts just as who can only be Daphne knocks on my door.  
I hug Mordelia goodbye and kiss my stepmother’s cheek and promise I’ll come to dinner sometime before the holidays. Once they’re gone, I’m left to myself to get ready.  
I end up wearing fitted dark jeans with a white jumper that has a delicate floral pattern embroidered with shimmery grey thread. It will contrast with my dark skin and bring out my eyes. I put on a thick coat and wrap a grey scarf around my neck, and then I leave my flat to go get Simon.  
I’ve conned Fiona out of her MG for the evening—not like she drives it much anyway. (The woman shouldn’t be allowed to drive period; she’s a danger to the public behind the wheel.)  
Simon said that he’d be perfectly fine to meet me somewhere, but Simon came to my door to get me for our first date, and I will not let him outdo me in the chivalry department. (Also, I very much want to see what his home looks like, even if it’s just a glimpse.  
It doesn’t take long to get to Simon’s flat. It’s a fairly modest building, only a few stories tall. Old, but charming. When I get to his door, I take a deep breath and then knock twice. A moment later, the door swings open, but there seems to be no one in front of me until I look down and see Henry Salisbury, looking me up and down skeptically. Whenever I see him, he always inspects me. It’s like he’s cataloguing my every appearance inside his head, looking for discrepancies.  
“Tyrannus. You can come in if you want. Simon’s still getting ready.” His voice is flat, but he steps aside and waves me into the flat with only a little condescension.  
“Thank you.” I step inside, and the first impression I get of the flat is…goats.  
Lots of goats and sheep and cows and horses. On placemats, in framed photos on the walls, the knickknacks lined up on the shelves. Simon has told me that his foster mother Ebb does love farm animals, but I never expected this. The whole place looks like an idealistic classic farmhouse. Or some kind of livestock shrine.  
The flat is rather oddly decorated, but it’s homey and comfortable and the air smells like freshly baked biscuits.  
To my left is a slightly cramped kitchen, so warm and inviting I can easily imagine Simon baking in it. There are four doors in the far wall of the main room that consists of the kitchen and living room. To my right is the living room, furnished with a worn but cozy-looking sofa and a plush reclining chair. Sitting in the chair is Ebb, an open book on her lap and a cup of tea in her hands. She looks up and smiles at me when I come in.  
“Hiya, Baz! So nice to see you again, dear. Sit on down, how are you?” She gestures to the sofa.  
I smile back at her. She’s so effortlessly friendly, it’s hard not to. “I’m doing well. And you?”  
“Oh, I’m all right. What do you have planned for my Simon this lovely evening?”  
I sit down on the sofa. On the coffee table in front of it, there’s a spread of papers and pens and pencils, set up alongside a plate of homemade-looking chocolate chip biscuits, and a half-full glass of milk. Henry comes around the sofa and sits on the other side of the table, immediately picking up a pen to start writing on one of the papers. He’s doing homework, I realize.  
“It’s a surprise, actually. It seems to be a bit of a theme with us.”  
Ebb grins and chuckles. “Well I know he’s excited. He’s been fussing about getting ready all day.”  
One of the doors behind us creaks open. And then I hear the voice I’ve been aching to hear. “Ebb, come on. Let me have some dignity.”  
I turn to look behind me, and there he is. A red-faced Simon, wearing that leather jacket that makes him look unfairly fit with a navy-blue beanie on his head. Instead of his usual trainers and trackies, he’s wearing sturdy brown boots and scandalously well-fitted jeans that show off his muscular thighs.  
Simon is the rare kind of handsome that requires almost no maintenance. He’s effortlessly gorgeous, and it would be much more irritating if I didn’t get to look at him. If I didn’t get to bask in the golden glow of his tawny complexion and his technicolor blue eyes and pink lips. I could be fairly content just looking at Simon forever, but the urge, the need, to touch him is getting near impossible to ignore.  
I want to run my fingertips over his tattoos and press my lips to the pulse points on his wrists, breathe in the rich, buttery scent that always clings to his skin because he bakes so much.  
But I’m in his family’s flat right now. This is no time to fantasize about all the things I want to do to Simon. (The list gets longer every day, it seems.)  
“Hi Baz.” He smiles at me. (Crowley, his smile.) “You ready to go?”  
I get to my feet and shoot him a smile that’s softer than I’d usually be comfortable with. “I’ve been ready, Snow. Though I was enjoying Ebb’s company." I wink at Ebb. It can’t hurt to get on her good side.  
Ebb playfully rolls her eyes and waves us towards the door. “Oh hush. Get on out of here, go out and be young and have fun.”  
Simon laughs and circles through the living room to kiss Ebb’s cheek and ruffle Henry’s hair. I walk towards the door.  
“Don’t stay up too late, okay?” Simon tells Henry. His voice gets so adorably tender when he talks to Henry.  
Henry grunts but nods, still engrossed in his homework.  
“Should we wait up, Simon?” Ebb teases, wiggling her blond eyebrows at him.  
“Okay, Baz, time to go.” Simon says loudly, quickly walking over to join me at the door, cheeks once again flushed.  
“Have fun!” Ebb calls as Simon practically shoves me out the door into the hall, shutting the door tight behind us. We walk in silence to the old lift. He hits the button and it dings softly as the doors shudder open.  
Then we’re alone in the rather small lift. He smells like sugar and butter and generic soap and mint, a mixture of comforting scents.  
“Hi.” He says again, looking up at me. His face is flushed, and he looks so good I’m contemplating just kissing him now, finally.  
“You look—you’re—you look really good.” Simon tends to stumble over his words. Especially when he’s nervous. Especially when he’s nervous around me. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to be, as adorable as it is.  
I make a show of looking him up and down, like I haven’t been ogling him this whole time. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Snow.”  
He nudges his shoulder into mine, half-smiling. “So where are you taking me?”  
“This is giving me deja vu, but it’s a surprise.” I smirk.  
Snow pretends to look put out, pouting dramatically while trying to not smile. When the lift gets to the ground floor of his building, his stomach gives a loud, obvious growl.  
I raise an eyebrow at him as we get out, and he blushes again. “Um, any chance there’s going to be food on this mystery date?”  
“I know who you are, Simon Salisbury. Of course, there’s going to be food.”  
We drive to the curry place in the MG.  
“I didn’t know you could drive. I didn’t know you had a car.” Simon says as we’re buckling up.  
“I can drive, yes. Though this is technically Fiona’s car. We have a bit of a drive to what I have planned, so I borrowed it.”  
“Are you taking me out of the city to murder me?” He asks, and I can’t tell if he’s being serious.  
I gave him a deadpan look at a traffic light. “Yes.” He just laughs.  
The curry place is pretty informal. It’s just a hole-in-the-wall place with an order counter and a little busy kitchen behind it. But the cooks work wonders.  
The food is incredible, and the dining experience isn’t the main event of the evening. Simon and I eat delicious curry on the boot of Fiona’s MG, because I’ve seen the way he eats, and I don’t trust him with food inside a vehicle.  
Simon takes the first bite of his dinner and his eyes get comically wide. “Holy shit—” he says, cutting himself off to stuff more food into his mouth.  
“Glad you approve then.” I smirk and eat mine like a civilized person. (I’ve discovered I don’t mind that Simon is lacking in table manners, even if we aren’t technically eating at a table right now.)  
The sun is getting lower in the sky. I have to practically force him back into the car—he looks like he wants to eat all the curry they have in the restaurant. I buy him another order after he promises to eat it fast. (A promise he eagerly fulfills.)  
Then we’re driving. I’ve got the GPS on and Simon is fiddling with the radio, pursing his lips as he spins the dial. He skips past something soft and upbeat, gasping before turning it back.  
“Oh, I love this song! Mum used to sing it all the time.” He grins as he turns up the radio. I’ve never heard this song before.  
A man’s smooth voice fills the car, but I’m more focused on Simon’s voice as he sings along. He’s anything but a good singer, but his voice is so earnest and genuinely sweet.  
“Better get ready,” he croons, eyes closing. He smiles, leaning back in his seat. “To see the light.”  
Then his eyes open as he sings the next line, and I nearly swerve off the road, because he’s looking at me, singing to me, eyes warm and sickeningly sweet. And his smile—Crowley.  
“Love, love is the answer.” His smile is smaller now, shyer as he tips his chin up to sing along. “And that’s all right.”  
His cheeks grow pink and he seems to lose his nerve. He turns his head to look out the window, still softly singing along.  
In my peripheral vision, I see his hand resting on his thigh. I could write sonnets about Snow’s hands. But their lovely freckles and short, square nails are marred somewhat by the broken skin of his knuckles.  
Right. I wonder if we should talk about that. I don’t want to ruin the light, easy mood by bringing up his…hobby? His incredibly dangerous and probably unhealthy hobby.  
Instead, I take one hand off the wheel to rest it gently on top of his, careful to avoid his raw knuckles. He jumps a little at the sudden touch, and I almost pull my hand back, but then he flips his over and wraps my hand in his. I glance over, and he’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye, half-smiling nervously.  
I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. I drive one-handed for as long as I can.


	17. The Moon Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon go on a moon garden date.

**Simon**

I have no idea where Baz is taking me, and part of me just doesn’t care. Right now I’m just happy holding his hand, listening to the radio, and watching him drive.  
Baz looks good doing anything. Walking, eating, driving. He always looks like he’s in an add for something posh and expensive. Watching him is nothing short of mesmerizing.  
I’m watching him drive, and his hand is in mine. His hands are elegant—a musician’s hands. They’re calloused in different places than mine. On the tips of his fingers from playing the violin, the roughened spots on the joints of his fingers where he holds a pen or a bow. The rough parts of my hands—from fighting, from working—tend to rub up against the smoother parts of his hands, and vice versa.  
Every part of Baz just makes me unbelievably happy. His sharp, sometimes barely-there smiles, the deep shades of green and blue in his grey eyes. His profile is also breathtaking. I’m enjoying it immensely now, as he’s turned to face the road.  
Baz’s face is all sharp panes, from his forehead to his cheekbones to his pouty, downturned lips. His lips perfect. His nose is high up on his face, a long straight line. He sometimes reminds me of those amazing ancient marble statues, what with the aristocratic look of his face.  
His face is intimidating at first—it tends to be still and stern when he’s not emoting (something I’ve learned he stops himself from doing on purpose, which I can’t comprehend). He has the kind of features that, put together, look unfriendly and kind of cruel. But when he smiles, when he lets himself have actual expressions, he’s not so mean-looking anymore.  
Basilton Grimm-Pitch is beautiful. It’s impossible for him not to be.  
But his face when he smiles—when he’s happy—is the kind of beauty and perfection people write epic poems and make incredible art about. Nothing is better than when Baz is happy, when he lets himself look it.  
I spend the rest of the drive listening to the radio and just admiring Baz like a creeper, holding his hand. But he watches me too. Maybe not right now, but I can usually feel his eyes on me like a physical presence. It makes my whole body feel like it’s blushing, and yet my skin prickles with goosebumps. Like getting out of a hot bath—warm and flushed, but also shivering.  
It still kind of boggles my mind that Baz is into me. I think he wants to be boyfriends. He wants to have a real relationship with me—at least that’s the vibe I’m getting from him. (Hopefully I’m not just projecting my own desires onto him.)  
Christ, I’d love to be his boyfriend. To get to call him mine, to be his.  
When I briefly dated Aggie in high school, it was kind of shit. I was a terrible boyfriend, we both agreed on that. (Penny did as well.) I tried to be a good boyfriend for Agatha, but it just didn’t work. And later I realized that I just didn’t want it in the end, no matter how hard I tried. (And it wasn’t Agatha’s fault. Agatha is lovely, and one of my best friends, but we didn’t work together romantically.)  
This thing with Baz is different in every way, and not just because he’s a bloke.  
I want Baz. I want to be his boyfriend and be a good one. Be the kind of man he deserves.  
He makes me want so many things I never thought would be possible for me.  
We must be at the place. It’s dark outside, so I can’t make out really what it is. But there’s a little building with a car park where Baz easily parks his aunt’s car. (It’s a nice car. I know nothing about cars, and I couldn’t tell you what kind this one is, but that I can tell it’s nice. And Baz handles it like he’s been driving his whole life.)  
“All right, Simon. We’re here.” He says. He gets out of the car, and I follow suit. He takes my hand as we walk up to the building, and it distracts me so much I almost miss the sign over the door.  
The Six White Hare’s Moon Garden.  
I gasp, loudly and excitedly. “Baz! Are we at what I think we are?”  
He raises that eyebrow as he opens the door. “All signs point to yes, I suppose.”  
I beam at him as we go into the building. It’s mostly a little gift shop and an admission’s desk. I see some other people—mostly couples and a few families with young children—browsing through the gift shop that has pretty garden decorations and books about moon gardening and night-flowing plants.  
I’ve always wanted to go to a real-life moon garden! I’m practically bouncing in place while Baz and I wait in line to pay admission. He’s still holding my hand, and also holding back a smile as he looks over my excited state.  
“All right, Simon?”  
I nod over and over again like a maniac. “Yes! This is brilliant, thank you so much! I’ve always wanted to go to one of these!”  
The elderly man at the admission’s desk chuckles when he sees my obvious eagerness to go out the door just past the gift shop that leads out into the garden.  
“I do hope it lives up to your enthusiasm, young sir. It’s a good night for moon garden viewing, lots of moonlight.” He takes Baz’s money and then hands us each a pamphlet with information about the garden and all the plants in it, which I eagerly fold open to look at.  
“Thank you.” Baz says, because I’m too busy vibrating with impatience to get out there.  
“Baz, c’mon!” I whine. Baz is being difficult on purpose, pretending to be interested in the gift shop. He’s stopped right before the door outside and is inspecting the selection of birdfeeders handing from a rack. I refuse to let go of his hand, so I’m stuck beside him. But I will resort to tugging on it like a child to get him to move.  
“Baaaaaaz!” I complain, desperate to get outside. The pamphlet says they have so many kinds of night-blooming flowers and fragrant blooms and I want to see them so badly.  
His lips twitch as he squints at a label on one of the birdfeeders. “You sound like Mordelia.” He murmurs.  
“If you torture her this way, then I don’t see why I wouldn’t.” I huff, but he’s making me laugh at little. I squeeze his hand and try to lead him towards the door, pouting. He laughs and finally relents.  
We burst outside, hand in hand, and the fragrance of the flowers has me closing my eyes and taking a deep breath for a moment. The night air is cool but bearable, and the garden is gorgeous. From the deck on the back of the front building, we have a perfect view of everything.  
The garden is maybe the size of two or three football fields all smooshed together. There are white flowers gleaming under the moonlight everywhere, neatly trimmed grass and elegant stone paths with subtle ground lighting. I see a few gazebos tucked away within hedges and a cute little summer house wrapped up in vines, and there’s a trickling fountain at the center of everything, surrounded by swirls of silvery white and green. There are also six rabbit-shaped topiaries scattered about, all in different poses. The layout is obviously consciously planned, but the beds are purposefully overlapping and irregularly shaped, so there’s an intriguing kind of spontaneity to the design. There are some good-sized trees, strung up with silvery fairy lights.  
It’s more amazing than I ever imagined. (This is literally the perfect place to kiss Baz, not that I’m obsessing over that at all.)  
I bound down the stairs where they meet the main path that trails all through the space, dragging Baz behind me. He’s laughing and urging me to slow down.  
“Careful, Simon. You’ll hurt yourself.”  
“We have to see everything.” I start down the path.  
It’s not a terribly efficient process. We go forward maybe a few steps at a time before I gasp and stop, pulling Baz into a halt with me, as I refuse to let go of his hand still. But he doesn’t complain. He lets me do what I want. And what I want is to fawn over all the plants here.  
I point out specialized flower shapes on pollinator plants and the little stone rabbits hidden in flower beds. I ramble on about root systems and soil draining and look at that ground cover, it’s so lush!  
I’m crouched to the ground, feeling the softness of a lamb’s ear leaf between my fingers when I look up and see Baz staring down at me with such a fond expression on his usually so stoic face that the words I was speaking die in my throat.  
“And if you…feel this…it’s really…um, soft.” I mumble, blinking up at him in bewilderment. I realize that we’re almost halfway through the garden and all I’ve talked about is plants. Fuck, I’ve hardly looked at Baz.  
“Fuck, sorry, I got carried away, uh, let’s maybe—”  
Baz crouches down beside me and our shoulders brush as he runs the pads of his fingers over a velvety leaf.  
“Don’t apologize, Simon.” He says softly, breath just barely fogging up in the air. “I’m glad you like this place.”  
He leans closer, and I can almost feel the shape of his lips through the fabric of my hat. “And rest assured that I’m well entertained. I rather like when you bend over to look at things.”  
It feels like my throat is constricting. I can hardly breathe; all I can manage to get out is a little squeak of shock. Baz is grinning at me smugly, and I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. He obviously wanted to fluster me—it’s becoming one of his favorite hobbies I think—but there’s a gleam in his eyes, a hunger that reminds me of the way he first looked at me on the night we met.  
Then the posh, teasing git smoothly rises back to his full height. And just resumes walking down the pathway, hands casually in his coat pockets.  
I’m still crouched to the ground, wide-eyed and blushing harder than I possibly ever have in my entire life. I feel like I could spontaneously combust. All I can do is watch, mouth agape, as Baz ambles a few yards ahead, still smirking. Then my eyes are dropping down just a little to focus on his arse, and I blush harder somehow and quickly scramble to my feet, jogging a little to catch up with him.  
My mouth still isn’t working right, and I can’t look him in the eye—I still feel like I could just burn away into nothing.  
Baz clears his throat, and he looks insecure for a moment as he says, “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” His voice is low and almost ashamed, and I can’t stand it.  
“You—you didn’t!” I blurt, finally meeting his eyes for a moment before looking down at the ground, unable to say it to his face. “Definitely not uncomfortable about…that. Just, uh, surprised. Not used to it, is the thing. People don’t usually, er…you know. Really see me that way.”  
I glance up and meet his eyes that are already trained on me. “But I like that you do.”  
His face breaks out into a disbelieving smile. “What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.  
He shakes his head, still smiling. “How is that even possible? Have you seen yourself? I can’t understand how every person attracted to men aren’t throwing themselves at you as soon as they lay eyes on you.”  
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I sputter, gawking up at him in amazement. “Have you looked at yourself? You’re, like, easily the fittest bloke I’ve ever seen. Famous people included. You’re fucking gorgeous, and brilliant, and you have really great hair.”  
One of his hands goes up brush it back behind his ear. “You like my hair, Snow?” His voice is soft and amused, and it takes me a second to realize that he’s a little shy, with the way he’s touching his hair now.  
I nod vigorously, and now I’m all worked up about how pretty Baz is. “Your hair is like if the perfect hair they show in TV ads was real. Even Agatha said you have awesome hair, and she’s, like, Agatha.”  
“High praise?” He asks with a smile, one brow going up.  
I think back on all the times Agatha has nagged me and Penny about proper hair care for our curly locks. And about how perfectly straight and lovely her hair is all the time. (Penny suspects Agatha does some kind of dark ritual in the morning to keep her hair looking so nice.)  
“Definitely.” I nod again, and the solemn look on my face has Baz laughing. His laugh is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It’s definitely one of my favorite things to listen to. It’s deep and refined, like him, but when he really gets going it comes out like water from a tap, just this continuous, ear-tickling sound.  
I take his hand again, and he lets me. We keep walking.   
“This place is so great, Baz. Thank you for taking me here.” I say after a little while. We’re passing under this large tree. Its leaves are in the process of turning red and orange and falling to the ground, and it’s strung up with these dangling fairy lights with spherical bulbs, casting silvery light over us. Baz looks ethereal in it. It makes his grey eyes practically glow. I can’t stop looking at them. (Have his lashes always been this long? Christ.)  
Baz smiles. “It’s my pleasure, Simon.”  
We slow our pace, pausing to look up through the branches above us. Past the fairy lights, I can see the night sky. Darkness, the moon, little dim pinpricks of light suggesting the existence of stars. (We can’t really see them in the city. At Ebb’s family farm, they’re much more visible.)  
“Henry knows a lot about stars.” I say, because I can’t look up at the night sky without thinking of the constellation charts taped to the walls of his room. “He’s a little astronomy buff.”  
“My mother used to teach me about the stars and their patterns. I can hardly remember it now.” Baz murmurs, still looking upwards. We pass out from under the lit-up tree and he looks down at his feet. Our shadows stretch out in front of us, into the darkness only broken up by the low path lights and the fairly substantial moonlight above.  
“What was she like? Your mum.” I say softly. I don’t know why I ask, really. It’s just that Baz and I share this similar kind of pain, having both lost our mothers. And I kind of want to test the waters in a sense to see if he can handle talking about his mum. I don’t want to accidentally mess anything up later.  
Baz smiles a sad and loving smile at the ground. “She was brilliant. And strong. Terribly stubborn, according to my aunt. My father says she was unlike anyone he’d ever met. She was very caring and stern with me, and she always stood up for what she believed in.” His voice is fond and quiet, like he might be whispering these words to the white flowers all around us.  
“What was her name?” I ask now, still quiet. I don’t want to break whatever delicate, trusting mood has fallen over us.  
“Her name was Natasha.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, soft and calm. “What was your mother’s name?”  
I smile. “Lucy. Lucy Winifred Salisbury.”  
He exhales a little huff of laughter. “Does everyone in your family have strange middle names, Simon Snow?”  
I laugh too and gently shove my shoulder into his. The emotional tension is broken.  
“Hey, you have no room to talk. Your middle name is Basilton.”  
We both break out into laughter, scaring a few birds out of the hedges the path is leading us through. Baz shivers, suddenly, and I realize that his hand is icy cold in mine.  
“Hold on,” I say. I let go of his hand and start to shrug out of my leather jacket. I’m always overheating anyway, and I’m used to lending my outer layers to Agatha and Penny when they get cold. The air tonight is brisk, but nothing against my naturally overwarm body heat.  
Baz’s eyes go a bit wide and he shakes his head. “Simon, that’s not necessary, I’m—” he doesn’t finish his sentence, because I’ve already got the jacket off and I’m leaning up on my tiptoes to swing it around his shoulders. He’s taller than me, but I’m broader, so my jacket practically swallows his leaner frame. He still looks unfairly fetching in my clothes.  
“There.” I say, fastening the little snap button at the collar of my jacket so it won’t slip off him. I don’t think he could put his arms through the sleeves with his coat still on, and my arms are probably shorter than his anyway. I step back a little to look at him; he’s blushing, still trying to object, though his teeth are practically chattering.  
“Snow, you don’t—” I take immense pleasure in interrupting his excuse once again to transfer the soft beanie on my head onto his, leaning up on my toes again to tug it down around his ears. A shocked and disgruntled noise comes from his throat—something like a squawk—, and I laugh.  
“Simon,” he says, exasperated. His hands go up to take off the hat, but I catch his wrists. He tries to pull them out of my grasp, but I hold on stubbornly. In fact, I change my hold, so my warm hands wrap around his cold ones. I rub my thumbs over his smooth knuckles and try to discern whether or not the flush in his cheeks is from the cold or my actions. I hope it’s at least a little because of me.  
“You’re going to freeze to death, you nightmare.” Baz snaps. He’s glaring at me sullenly from underneath my hat. I shrug, and he glares harder.  
“I don’t get cold as easy as you do. I’ll be fine, Baz.” I insist. I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt anyway, and it’s not that cold. Baz is just one of those people who is always cold, I’ve discovered.  
I’m still holding both his hands. They’re slowly warming from just being in contact with mine.  
“You’re insufferably kind, Snow. And you’re going to catch a cold.” Baz argues. He looks caught somewhere between pissed off and happy. I’ve annoyed him enough that his face is showing his emotions more than it usually does. He’s trying so hard to glare me into submission, but his lips keep twitching in a smile he’s valiantly trying to muscle down.  
I shrug again. “Nah.” I’m just grinning at him, infuriating and charming him more. He’s not shivering anymore. He’s just being difficult on principle now.  
“Simon,” Baz rolls his eyes. I love it when I drive him to say my real name in pure exasperation. “I appreciate the gesture, as sweet as it is, but—”  
Still smiling so wide my cheeks are pushing up into my eyes, I step closer to him, almost closing the gap between us. His voice cuts off, and I can feel his breath catch against my forehead. I look up at him, our hands still clasped between us.  
“If you’re so worried about the cold, why don’t you warm me up, Baz?” I raise my eyebrows suggestively, because I can’t do just one like he can.  
He makes another surprised noise in his throat, this one soft and sweet. His eyes are blown wide, pupils almost swallowing up the grey of his irises. There’s just a lovely ring of almost-silver.  
I decide to go for it, because I’m not usually this smooth and I don’t know if I could set it up this well again. I get him to slouch a little by tugging on his hands. I have to lean up just a little for our foreheads to gently rest against each other.  
“I really wanna kiss you, Baz.” My voice is low and gravelly. My throat is dry, I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. His eyes go a little wider. He doesn’t seem to be able to speak. His mouth is hanging open just a little. Mine is too. I can feel his breath on my lips. I can’t look him in the eyes—because of the way our foreheads are touching, and also because I’m terrified. I know my cheeks must be traitorously red right now. I look at his lips. Soft red and full and always slightly downturned.  
“Can I?” I ask, because I have to ask. I have to hear him say it. I watch him swallow, and he blinks slowly, looking a bit overwhelmed. His long dark eyelashes just barely brush my skin. He licks his lips, then—  
“Yes.” He breathes. His voice is barely a whisper, so deep and pliant, at least right now.  
That single syllable is all I need. I surge upwards, press my lips to his. His eyes fall shut, and then so do mine.  
It takes me a second to do anything but just hold my lips to his, because when our lips meet I feel like every blazing fire should immediately extinguish, all the lights should go out, every flower around us should close, because nothing will ever compare to the heat, the brilliance, the beauty of this kiss, of this moment. I also kind of hate myself for not doing this so much sooner. I’ll have to make up for lost opportunities, I suppose.  
Baz’s lips are probably softer than mine, but I don’t think he minds. He practically melts into me as soon as our mouths make contact. I can’t really remember what kissing Agatha was like all that much. That was so long ago; I can’t compare it to now. I don’t know if it matters if Baz is a bloke, but I do know that kissing him is something I could never forget.  
The only thing that matters right now is that I’m kissing Baz. My lips slot with his, and his lips part for me. His hands let go of mine to come up and wrap tightly around my waist. I tilt my head, move my chin for a better angle, and rest my hands on his hips, pulling him closer to me.  
And he’s kissing me back. He tastes like spice from the curry. He smells like that woodsy and citrusy soap he uses. Kissing him is something undeniably good. He meets my every move with equal eagerness and force. I never want to stop doing this.  
I move my lips languidly against his and explore his mouth with my tongue, drawing these lovely little moans out of him. I feel like I’ve tipped over the edge of something, and now I’m falling past the point of no return, and I can’t get enough of him. His lips, his hands at the small of my back, the feeling of my chest against his.  
This first kiss lasts for an impressively long time, but we do need to eventually stop for a breath of air, unfortunately. But Baz doesn’t go far when our lips reluctantly break apart. His nose is still brushing against mine in a pleasant way. His hands are running up and down my back. I’m only wearing one layer, so he can do that and is actually able to feel the shape of me. I want to feel him too, fan my fingers over his ribs and run my hands over his shoulders while we kiss. But he’s wearing two jackets now. (Not that I regret giving him mine because he was cold.) I hope I’ll get to feel him at some point.  
I opened my eyes as soon as we broke apart, but his are still closed, lashes resting against his reddish-gold cheeks. We’re both breathing a bit heavy. We’re holding each other so closely I can feel his sped-up heartbeat even through his layers of clothing. I’m just looking at his gorgeous face. His sharp cheekbones and dark, perfectly arched brows.  
Then, his eyes open, beautiful grey. His lips are already red and swollen from kissing and it makes my heart jump because I did that.  
He smiles one of those incredible Baz smiles where his snark wouldn’t even have a chance to stamp it down. Wide and unabashed and sharp, because it’s still Baz.  
“Warm enough yet, Snow?”  
I bring one of my hands up to rest on the back of his neck, brushing the smooth patch of skin between his scarf and where his hair is pressed against his neck from my hat. The other hand goes around his waist, because there’s no way I’m letting him go now that I have him where I want him.  
“Getting there.”  
Our lips meet again, both of us smiling so hard it’s almost impossible to kiss.  
Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. I done did done did it.  
> I know a lot of you incredible, faithful readers were really looking forward to the first kiss, so I hope you enjoyed it. (I don't know if you can tell, but writing kissing is hard for me. My mind just goes blank.)  
> Thanks to everyone who leaves kudos and comments, ya'll are my motivation. <3  
> Shout out to @Unenthusiastic_mermaid aka subpar-selkie on tumblr, for her adorable and precious fanart of Simon based on this fic. check it out, it's awesome: https://subpar-selkie.tumblr.com/post/190728018319/hes-a-knockout-nerdistheword-carry-on-series  
> I should have mentioned this before now, but I do have a tumblr. hmu, I'm kraken-llamas and I post dumb snowbaz shit sometimes


	18. Boyfriend? Boyfriend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz decide to be boyfriends. (Also there's more kissing.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little Baz chapter to tide ya'll over. I couldn't not do it. Super huge thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos on this fic, I love you all so much! It makes me so happy that people enjoy what I write! It's inspiring and motivates me SO MUCH. I have more plans for this fic, definitely (Idk how long its going to be, but I have places in mind I want it to go) and I'm even coming up with new ideas I want to write sometime.

**Baz**

Simon is kissing me like one of us might die if he doesn’t, and I’ve never felt anything as delightful as this.

His lips are almost searing, and I love it. He’s not stopping, —he hasn’t, save for a brief few seconds where we had to break for air—if anything, his kisses are getting more fervent, bolder as we continue.

One of his rough, warm hands is on the back of my neck, and the other is reeling me in by the small of my back, and he’s gently pulling my head down to kiss me, nipping and tugging and sucking on my lips with his incredible pink mouth, and I’ve wanted this since I first saw him and I can’t get enough of it. Of him.

He’s almost unbearably good at this. He knows just how to tilt his chin to draw these embarrassing noises out of me, knows how to work his mouth on mine in such a way that I’m melting against him, allowing him to take control. Simon’s kisses are overwhelming in the best possible way. He continuously makes my breath catch, keeps my heart rate up as if I’m running drills at football practice. It feels like he’s learning how to snog me well into insanity.

I’m shivering for a completely different reason now. I feel deliciously warm all over, —not just because of the extra clothes Simon has forced upon me—like Simon is transferring a current of heat into me at every point of contact between us. Our lips, his hands on me, my hands braced on his shoulders. (Crowley, his shoulders.)

We’ve just been standing here in the middle of this pathway, shielded from everything by the tall hedges on either side of us. It’s a lovely stroke of luck that no one has come up the path and walked into our snogging session. I’m completely off-kilter. My knees feel like they could give out at any moment, but Simon’s lips are relentless against mine. I feel like I’ve just opened a door I can’t close, and I do not give any fucks about it whatsoever because _Simon is kissing me._

He pulls away, leaving me breathless from the absolutely sinful slide of his tongue against mine. My eyes open and take in his blue eyes, pupils blown wide. His rosy cheeks, his kiss-swollen lips. I suspect I look similarly well-snogged.

“We should probably see the rest of the garden, yeah?” His voice is low and soft and a little rough, and it makes me shiver again.

My voice is nowhere to be found, so I just nod. His arms slide away from me reluctantly, and he’s biting his lip, an action that makes my stomach flip. He looks pensive for a moment, and then he catches me off guard, quickly darting in as he pulls away to peck me on the lips. My heart feels like it could burst.

Now Simon once again takes my hand in his, and we finish our walk through the garden.

We pass lovely summer houses and rabbit topiaries and the grand fountain at the focal point of the garden, which is where Simon once again knocks me off my feet.

“Does this mean we’re boyfriends now?” he asks. It feels like an inherently juvenile question, and I would mock him for it if he didn’t ask it while in the middle of one of his long gardening explanations. I didn’t see it coming, sprinkled in with his opinions on mulch. My heart rate was just settling, and now he’s gone and offered me yet another amazing thing I want from him.

“Pardon?” I say, though I heard him perfectly.

He swings our joined hands together between us as we lazily walk around the fountain. He’s smiling. The nightmare hasn’t stopped smiling since we kissed, and it may kill me.

“Can we be boyfriends now? I really like snogging you, and I really really like you, so.” He nudges his shoulder against mine. His breath is ever so slightly fogging up the air in front of his well-kissed lips.

“D’you wanna?” He looks up at me, face lit up by the fountain lights. He looks down and kicks at a piece of gravel with his shoe. “I, uh, haven’t been anyone’s boyfriend for a while, and I was kind of terrible at it back then. Just, full disclosure, I guess. Yeah. But I want you. I want to be your boyfriend.” He’s chewing on his bottom lip again, looking stressed and terrified. He does one of his showy swallows.

I’m on a rollercoaster, seeing how his almost confident nonchalance is devolving into this nervous babbling.

“You know, you probably don’t even want to, we should—we should just—” He almost lets go of my hand, rambling nonsense. I grip it tighter and shake my head. This absolute idiot. This gorgeous moron.

“Simon.” I say his name through an almost giddy laugh. I pull him to me, take his other hand in mine, try to get him to look at me. His blue eyes keep avoiding mine, and his cheeks are red and Crowley, he’s beautiful.

“Simon,” I say again, finally managing to get him to stop rambling and finally look at me. I’m smiling, though a part of me wants to hide my real feelings and not let him know he’s giving me literally everything I want—him—on a silver platter. I’m smiling anyway, because I know that he needs to know that I want this; that I want him. I want him to know.

“Be my boyfriend, okay? I don’t care if you think you’re terrible at it. I want you, too.” He’s staring up at me with wide eyes, mouth dropped open. (He’s an abominable mouth-breather.) For a second I think he’s going to remain unresponsive, but then he squeezes my hands and his face breaks out into that phenomenal smile.

“Yeah?” He leans up and forwards, hopefully. Blinking those blue eyes at me. I’m quickly learning that this is Simon body language for “kiss me please.”

I cup one side of his face in my hand. His cheek is warm, and when I lean in to kiss him, his nose is cold. The feeling of his strong, square jaw pressing into my palm is _everything_.

“Yeah.” I say against his lips.

And then I continue to let Simon Snow snog the life out of me. Wherever and whenever he wants.

We had several snogging sessions at multiple places in the moon garden as we were departing, and inside the MG when we went back to it. Again, inside the car when we got to his building, then in the lift, and lastly in front of his flat door.

It took us a long time to get back, but I don’t care. Neither does Simon, it seems. He’s taking full advantage of how I melt whenever his lips touch mine, using my sudden pliability to delay driving him home, pressing the button to his floor in the lift, going into his flat.

He’s got me pressed up against the wall beside his front door, furthering his agenda to make me weak and dizzy and disgustingly happy. (He also pressed me against the wall in the lift. And in the car, he leaned so far out of his seat to reach me that I’m sure the gear shift must have been digging into his ribs, but he didn’t relent until the windows started getting foggy.)

My mouth has been sore since the last kiss diversion as we were exiting the garden, but I revel in it and continue to let Simon make a complete mess out of me.

I gave him his coat and hat back when we entered his building, and he’s taking full advantage of my now free hair. He keeps running his fingers through it, occasionally curling it into a gentle but firm fist to get me to move my head where he wants. The feeling of his hands in my hair is indescribably good. Everything he’s doing is indescribably good.

Right now, he tugs my hair so my head tilts backwards, and then he’s mouthing at the top of my neck that he can reach where my scarf doesn’t cover it.

A completely undignified warbled moan pushes its way past my lips as his attack my neck. He’s humming into my skin, mouth giving kisses that send goosebumps all up and down my body. His hand that’s not buried in my hair comes up and he pulls my scarf down just a bit so he can nip at my Adam’s apple. When I feel his tongue lave at the place he bit I sigh his name, knees shaking.

“ _Simon_ ,” It feels like I’m about to liquefy into a puddle if he keeps this up. It’s late now, almost eleven. I have to let him go home soon. He has work tomorrow. As much as I’m aching (literally) to take him home with me and continue—with snogging or whatever else he’s willing to give me—I’ve kept him for a long time already, even if it doesn’t feel long enough.

He hums a questioning sound into the crook of my neck, and I can feel his chin there as he starts nipping at my earlobe now. He’s going to _kill_ me. Christ. Simon is more insatiable than I anticipated. (And I have no qualms about that whatsoever.)

“Simon, love—” he comes up and interrupts me with a quick kiss. He looks up at me, smiling like he wasn’t just sucking on my neck.

“Yeah?”

I try to pull myself together, try to get my brain to boot back up. Simon has thoroughly made sure that the process is difficult.

I cup his face in my hand and smile back at him when he leans into it, pressing a kiss to my wrist.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this, but it’s getting rather late.”

His face goes into an adorable pout, and he glares at his own door like its just come to life and kicked him.

Then he leans into me with most of his weight, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“I know.” He sighs, head resting on my shoulder just beside my chin. I’ll never stop being thankful to my genes that I’m taller than him.

I wrap my arms around him as well, and my lips go to his temple and give a tender kiss there, because I _can_. Because he’s my boyfriend now, and he’s given no indication that he doesn’t appreciate physical affection. In fact, he’s made it incredibly apparent that he craves it, what with his tongue being in my mouth for the last hour and a half.

Simon squeezes me one last time, and then slowly pulls away, digging for his keys in his jean pocket.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?” He grins at me as he unlocks his door.

“That sounds lovely.”

Inside his flat, most of the lights are off except the one over the entryway and a soft backsplash light in the kitchen. It’s quiet. Ebb and Henry must be in bed.

He gives me one last lingering kiss on the lips, then leans away for a moment to smile at me before he darts back in to peck me on the cheek.

“Thanks for tonight, Baz. It was…” Simon pauses, searching for the right word. His eyes are sparkling, cheeks pushing up into his eyes from his smile. His bottom lip is half pulled into his mouth as he looks at me, taking all of me in. My hair must be a mess (his fault).

I can still taste him on my lips. I suddenly want to pull him back to me, keep him in my arms forever. Now that I know what it’s like to kiss him and hold him and make him this happy, I never want to stop it. How am I supposed to just let him go for the night and turn around and go home when I’m now so familiar (and yet not near familiar enough) with his kiss?

“Honestly, one of the best nights I’ve ever had.” Simon says, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s flushed and breathless—Crowley, we both are— and his face is alight with happiness. His voice is deliciously rough right now.

“Me too.” I admit.

Simon’s smile gets impossibly wider, and he closes his eyes for a second and looks down before once again lunging at me to deliver another quick kiss.

“Goodnight Baz.” He says quietly, stepping into his flat.

“Goodnight Simon.” I say back to him. He gives me one last smile, and then the door shuts, and I’m left alone with this incredible floating, buzzing, dizzying feeling that Simon has instilled in me with his touch. There’s a fair amount of longing too. For more. Crowley, I want more.

I’m just as insatiable and intense in my romantic urges as him, and he hardly even knows it. He just completely overpowered me with his passion tonight, but as soon as I get the chance, I’m returning the favor. (If he lets me—though there is something appealing about just letting Simon Snow have his way with me, I still very much want to stun him silly as well like he’s done me.)

I go home and flop onto my bed like a starfish, still fully dressed, exhausted and exhilarated. I’m so tired, my body desperately wants rest, but my mind on the other hand…

Simon Snow Salisbury is my boyfriend, and I can hardly believe it. If I wasn’t so tired right now, I’d think this night was all a dream. An incredible dream. He’s my boyfriend and he kissed me for _hours_ tonight.

After laying on my bed for a few minutes and smiling into one of my throw pillows like a teenager, replaying the night over and over in my head, I make myself get up and get ready for bed. I’m not a heathen.

I change into pyjamas and wash my face and brush my teeth, and then I climb back into bed and fall asleep giddy and smiling, like a child on Christmas Eve.


	19. The Ones Who Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Agatha perspective and an angsty Henry scene through Ebb's perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos on my fic! I really appreciate the support, and it keeps me writing! Just a warning, this chapter starts out fine, but the second part gets pretty angsty.

**Agatha**

Penny and I make it a habit to visit Simon at work on the Saturdays he’s there.

It’s certainly not the worst way to spend an hour or two on a Saturday afternoon. The shop is lovely, and Simon makes delicious pastries. Penny brings a book and I bring my laptop and we claim a table and drink fragrant fruit tea and eat biscuits.

Watching Simon work, seeing him chat with customers and take care of the various plants around the shop makes it very clear that he loves this place. And I can’t blame him, really. It’s cozy and warm and his boss seems to like him a lot. (Of course, then again, _everyone_ loves Simon. My parents always ask how he is when I visit them, and they send him and Henry gifts every Christmas.)

Today, Penny’s brought another person to our after-lunch tea. An American she met at uni with big glasses and a denim jacket covered in pins and patches. He’s uber-friendly, even for an American, and I already know way too much about him.

His name is Shepard, and he’s from Omaha, wherever that is, and he’s a biology major. He works in a natural history museum, and he’s really into weird documentaries he finds on Netflix. He’s even chattier than Penny.

His near constant talking is distracting, but his accent is kind of interesting to listen to. And Penny, while not engaging in most of the endless conversation topics he’s been flipping through, keeps smiling these little sideways smiles at him while she reads her book.

I haven’t seen her look at a boy like that since high school. She must have a thing for Americans. I think Shepard is the reason she’s been smiling down at her mobile so often lately. She’s even dressed up just a little because he’s here. It’s subtle, because Penny doesn’t like fussing over her appearance much, but she definitely looks nicer than usual. Her bun is neater, the curly tendrils falling down from it frame her face almost as if on purpose. Her pleated skirt and tights and sweater actually match, and her glasses don’t have any smudges on the lenses.

Anyway, Shepard may be a tad annoying, but Penny seems to enjoy him and I’m proud she’s letting herself do that, so I’m just going to let it be.

Speaking of energetic boys…

Simon is in rare form today. I don’t think he’s stopped smiling since we came in. And it’s a real Simon smile, not a fake customer service one. Almost splitting apart his face, pushing his cheeks up into his eyes. It’s even there when he’s just cleaning the coffeemaker or rearranging things on the shelves.

He’s bubbly and bright and buzzing with energy. I don’t think I’ve seen him like this since…ever, really. I’ve seen Simon happy, don’t get me wrong. But this is a different kind of happy. What seems to be an overflowing kind, by the looks of it.

When we came in, Simon pulled me and Penny aside to tell us that Baz, the guy he’s been seeing, is now his boyfriend, explaining his exuberance. It’s really nice to see him so happy like this.

During my second cup of tea, Baz himself pops into The Thrifty Tea Rose.

Simon brightens up even more somehow and _beams_ at Baz. Baz only has eyes for him as he crosses the shop to come up to the counter. Then Simon leans over it and grabs Baz by his collar to kiss him.

Oh. All right. So that’s happening.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—Penny and I have known they’re dating—but there is something a little odd about seeing your ex-boyfriend kissing another man. In hindsight, I can see how Simon hasn’t always been exactly straight. Still, I’m glad he’s found someone who can reciprocate his feelings.

Penny looks up from her book and sees the PDA. She frowns and rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s happy for Simon too.

“Ugh, is this going to be a thing now?” She complains.

Simon pulls himself away from Baz, face bright red. He starts stuttering something incomprehensible, and Baz rolls his eyes at Penny.

“Fuck off, Bunce.” He says.

Baz is a very stylish, put-together person, from what little I’ve seen of him and what Penny has told me. He’s incredibly attractive. Tall and dark and handsome. And his grey eyes are mesmerizing. It’s really no wonder Simon likes him so much. It’s obvious that Baz has an impeccable sense of style and I wonder if Simon’s wardrobe of trackies and hoodies bothers him. Penny says that Baz is posh and pretends to be aloof and that he’s very smart.

He doesn’t seem like the type to be into Simon. Not that Simon’s not attractive, because he is. Also, Simon is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met; anyone would be lucky to have him. It’s just that Simon is the opposite of stylish and put-together. But Baz seems captivated by him anyway.

“Uh, Baz, you remember my friend Agatha.” Simon gets over his embarrassment and gestures to me.

“Of course. Good to see you again.” Baz says politely. I give him a little wave.

“And this is Penny’s friend Shepard.” Simon says. “Shepard, this is Baz. My boyfriend.” His face reddens again as he says it.

“Nice to meet you.” Baz comes over to shake Shepard’s hand. He looks at Penny with a raised brow, and she pretends to read her book.

Shepard launches into his introduction. “Hi! I’m from Omaha, Nebraska. I’m studying biology here across the pond. Penny says you’re a literature major too. Do you read as much as her?”

Baz raises his eyebrow and smirks. He’s a pretty man, but he is kind of mean looking. I think it’s his sharp cheekbones. He matches Simon, in that way. Though Simon tends to give off more of a thuggish vibe.

“I don’t think anyone could possibly read as much as Bunce does.” Baz says. Penny shuts her book and lifts it up to swat him with it.

“It’s called studying, Basil. You should try it sometime, instead of investigating my best friend’s tonsils.”

Shepard snorts and I wrinkle my nose. I see Simon slowly sink behind the counter, pretending to busy himself with the glass display case of pastries. Baz pulls a chair up to our table and gracefully sits down. He flips his long hair over his shoulder and looks at Penny like she’s something unpleasant he’s stepped in, but also like he likes her.

“I manage my time wisely, don’t worry about my marks.”

Penny rolls her eyes and goes back to her book. Shepard has the same book in his lap, but he reads Penny’s over her shoulder. I think it’s a thin excuse to move his seat closer to hers.

I wonder if Simon has noticed… I look up and not only is Simon only staring at Baz, but he’s still Simon. Of course, he doesn’t notice little things like Penny’s perfume, or Shepard slowly inching closer to her.

My two best friends are falling in love with people, I realize.

I know what love is. And I feel love for my parents and my friends, but not the kind of love people write songs about. It took me a long time to figure out that what I felt for Simon wasn’t romantic, and then even more time to figure out that it wasn’t just him. I don’t feel romantic love for anyone, and I can’t imagine it. It just…isn’t my thing.

And I’m starting to feel like that’s okay.

**Ebb**

Henry is quieter than usual today. He’s a quiet boy, but he’s not even engaging in his Saturday tradition of watching cartoons. Instead, he’s just looking down and bouncing his ball against the floor repetitively.

Trying to get him to open up is like trying to gain the trust of a scared animal. You have to be slow, and cautious and gentle. It took him a long time to be comfortable with me when I took him and Simon in.

I remember those first months. Simon was so protective of Henry he wouldn’t leave him alone with me in a room, and Henry was so skittish he wouldn’t say more than a handful of words to me at a time.

The way to Simon’s heart was with food and hugs and caring about Henry. Feeding Henry excessively didn’t hurt to gain his trust, but getting Henry to be comfortable around me and eventually start to trust me was different. Really, it was just being consistent in my caring for him. Walking him to and from school on time, being there for him always, even when he didn’t want me to.

Once I’d proved to Henry that I was a solid, reliable guardian, he started to trust me. I watched this constantly anxious, terrified little boy grow and become the clever, charming boy he is now. Now he doesn’t hesitate to hold my hand when we cross the street or get under the blanket with me when we watch telly together.

But getting him to talk about his feelings is still a struggle most of the time. He sits on his emotions, this one. Simon is an open book for the most part, but Henry is always tightly shut.

Something is bothering him. Sometimes I feel like something’s always bothering him. Simon, too.

There’s something dark under the surface that’s tormenting Henry. I think it has something to do with his father. (I’d give anything to make it so none of the awful things that happened to my boys happened.)

I don’t want Henry to feel like he’s being ambushed. I don’t want him to feel like I’m scheduling an intervention either, so I wait until Simon’s gone off to work. The telly is on, the volume low, and Henry’s attention is mostly on his red rubber ball. There’s history behind that ball, and Henry never lets it out of his sight.

I sit on the sofa beside him with my tea and try to test the waters.

“Henry?” I say his name to get his attention. He stops bouncing the ball and catches it with both of his hands as he turns to look at me. He looks too weary for a nine-year-old on a Saturday. He looks less energetic than he usually is. Henry rarely bounces with energy, but there’s usually a spark of inquisitiveness in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

Slowly, I scoot closer and rest my hand on his shoulder. He leans in closer, and lets me put my whole arm around him, then he rests against my side. He’s relaxed for just a moment, and then…

“You know you can always talk to me about anything, right?”

He recoils immediately, shrugging out of my hold so he can retreat to the far end of the sofa. My heart breaks a little for him. For the way his face immediately closes off, how his eyes go back to the floor.

“I’m not trying to make you spill your secrets, love.” I say gently. “It’s just that I’ve noticed that you’ve not been like yourself lately. If there’s anything you want to tell me, I’m always here to listen—”

He’s curled himself into a ball, hiding his face in his knees. I hear him say, “What if this is myself?”

“What do you mean?” I creep closer to him, setting my tea down. I’ve struck something that’s been bothering him.

Henry violently unfurls and clenches his hands into shaking fists on top of his thighs. His expression is dark and sad and frustrated. I stop, hand outstretched to him, surprised.

“What if I’m not good?” He snaps. “What if I’m a bad person? What if I’m a monster, Ebb? Can I still talk to you then?” He still won’t look at me. His eyes are squeezed shut.

“Henry, you are not a bad person. And you’re certainly not a monster. What makes you think that?” I’m determined not to cry, though my voice is already getting wobbly. I can’t cry right now; I need him to tell me what’s wrong.

He sobs, and it wracks his entire little body. He buried his face in his hands, and I’m beside him in an instant, lifting him onto my lap to hold him. He’s well past the tipping point of a meltdown, but we’re getting somewhere, I think.

“I _am_ a bad person. I’m mean to kids at school, and—and I think of b-bad things,” He cries into my shoulder.

“Henry—” I try to cut in to soothe him, but he keeps going at such a speed I wonder how long he’s been holding this inside his head and his heart.

His words come out in bursts, accompanied by sobs and hiccups. “I killed—I killed Lucy, and I’m gonna grow up to be like Dad, and you and S-Simon are going to hate me, and he already h-hates me cause I killed Lucy, and I’m a—a monster!”

What he says strikes something cold and terrified within me. He’s trying to break away from me again, but I don’t let him. I hold him to my chest and now I’m definitely crying. After a moment of struggle, Henry realizes there’s no point in trying to get away from this, and he sinks into me. I stroke his back and rock him gently back and forth, trying to keep my own crying under control.

I let Henry cry for a good long time. He soaks a large section of my shirt with his tears and snot and I don’t care. All I care about is him. After an indeterminate amount of time, his sobs die down and he sniffles. Still crying, from what I can see, but less intensely so.

“Henry…Oh Henry.” I murmur into his hair, tears running down my face. “How long…how long have you been thinking these things, love?”

He shrugs ever so slightly. “I dunno. A while.”

I close my eyes and squeeze him closer to me. I didn’t expect all this to come flooding out. There’s so much we need to sort through.

“Your mum dying was not your fault, Henry.” I say quietly and firmly. “It’s nobody’s fault, it was an _accident_. Simon would never hold what happened against you.” I kiss his forehead, use the hem of my shirt to dab at his wet cheeks.

“And neither me or Simon could ever hate you, no matter what. You’re his baby brother, and he loves you more than anything, and he always will.” I cup Henry’s face and get him to look up at me. “And you’re my son, Henry. Not by blood, but because I love you as a son. Nothing you could possibly do would make me not love you.”

He blinks up at me, eyes welling with more tears. “You’re sure?” His voice is broken and scratchy from crying.

I nod and kiss his forehead again. “As sure as the horns on a goat, love.”

A small smile makes it onto his face, and he closes his eyes, breathes shakily against my chest.

“You’re not a monster, Henry. You’re just a person. And people make mistakes sometimes. It’s how you behave after to try and fix it that counts.”

His eyes open again, and he looks at a random, unfocused point in front of us. “But what if I’m bad at that too? What if I’m like Dad?”

I shake my head with a teary laugh, and he looks up at me with a frown. “What?”

I run my hand through his hair and smile down at him. “The fact that you’re worried about being like him is proof enough that you aren’t and never will be.”

The spark comes back into his eyes again as my words take root in his mind. I can almost feel his mind thinking. He wrinkles his brows.

“I guess that makes sense…it’s just that I think bad things sometimes. And nobody at school likes me when I say them.”

“That doesn’t make you a monster, it just means you’ve got some things to work on in therapy, yeah?” I poke his side playfully.

Henry smiles again, then sniffles and moves so he can lay down on the couch with his head on my lap. It’s his favorite way to relax. I continue petting his hair and he sighs the sigh of a child who has been crying very hard. His eyes are slowly opening and closing, and he yawns.

I tug the throw blanket from where it’s folded on the back of the sofa and drape it over him.

“You can take a little nap, love. Just do me one favor, please.”

He curls up on his side and wraps the blanket more tightly around himself. “What?”

My hand is tan and rough-looking against his smooth freckled cheek.

“Try and be a little kinder to yourself, please. You don’t deserve to think all those awful things. You’re a good person, Henry. I’d like for you to start believing it too.”

He nods a little, looking thoughtful as his eyes close and he drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make myself cry whenever I write sad Henry. He's going to be okay, don't worry.  
> (Agatha is aro/ace in this fic btw)


	20. Rosebud Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Simon talk about their mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets pretty emotional. (I did cry when I wrote it) I'm basically hashing out Simon's canonical trauma via Henry, who, while being a character I made up, is still very much like Simon. (A younger Simon anyway)  
> Thanks to everyone who has shown support for this fic with kudos and comments! Ya'll make me so happy and motivated to write <3

**Simon**

I thought things were going okay while I was at work. All my friends and my boyfriend came by, and I didn’t mess up a single order or get a flower arrangement wrong.

Then I went home.

I get home and see Henry curled up on the sofa with Ebb, vacantly staring at the telly, and I know immediately that I’ve missed something.

Henry won’t even look me in the eye when I come in. And Ebb just gives me this strange, sad smile.

“What’s wrong?” I hurriedly set down my things and go into the living room to face them. Henry still won’t look at me. He has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his hair is all smooshed on one side, like he’s been asleep.

“Henry?” I try again, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Nothing.

“Henry, love,” Ebb says, hugging him. “I know it’s hard, but I think you need to open up to Simon about this.”

I’m starting to panic. Did something happen to him at school yesterday? Did he have a meltdown? Is he hurt? I’m usually so attuned to Henry’s behavior. I’ve just been so busy with Baz lately…Henry _has_ been quiet and somewhat reclusive for a little while. I just figured it was because of the news about Davy. I thought he just needed to process. I missed something today. Fear and guilt and worry start to swirl around in a pool of nervousness in my stomach.

Ebb must see me start to freak out, so she silently holds up a hand and mouths, _wait_.

I give her a “What the fuck is going on?” look, and she just shakes her head and looks pointedly down at Henry beside her.

He’s rolling the red rubber ball between his hands, eyes still cast downward.

“I need a shower.” He announces flatly. He emerges from the blanket and I see that he’s still in his pyjamas. Even on weekends, Henry always makes a point to change into real clothes by noon.

Then, still not looking directly at me, he turns and marches into the bathroom. The door shuts behind him, and the water comes on shortly after.

Now I look at Ebb, feeling untethered and still very worried.

“What the fuck is going on?” I say out loud. “Why won’t he—why is he—what—”

Ebb puts her hand on my knee and squeezes comfortingly. “Give him a little time to collect himself, Simon. He’s a little out of sorts.”

“Did he have a meltdown? Oh Christ.” I put my head in my hands, feeling like the worst big brother on the bloody planet. “I haven’t been paying much attention to him—is he mad at me?”

“Simon, sweetheart, no.” She says, then she stands and wraps her big arms around me. Ebb is tall and broad and sturdy. I’m only a little taller than her now. I rest my forehead against her abdomen and try to breathe.

“He opened up about what’s been bothering him. It all came out this morning after you left for work.”

I shut my eyes and try to calm down. “Is he okay?” I ask softly.

Ebb pets my head soothingly. “I think so, yes. He’s just feeling a lot of things, love. It’s not my place to tell you them. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

“Okay.” I mumble.

I spend the rest of the weekend trying to make myself as accessible as possible to Henry. I stay up late, waiting for him to come and sleep in my room like he always does. He doesn’t.

On Sunday, I make him pancakes and sit with him in silence while we eat. I take him to the library later that afternoon, but he still doesn’t talk. And when we got back, he shut himself in his bedroom with his books, and I didn’t see him until dinnertime, when he only came out to eat in more silence and then go to bed.

He’s barely acknowledging me, and it’s driving me insane. Henry doesn’t talk much, but this is different. He’s shutting me out in a way he’s never done before.

Ebb reassures me that he just needs some space, that he’ll come around and come back to me when he’s sorted it out in his head, like he always does. It’s just that he’s never been this distant. For most of my life, Henry has clung to me, and I’ve taken care of him.

I feel like I’ve failed, and I don’t even know in what. Obviously, I’ve fucked something up here. I figured that Henry would eventually grow apart from me and experience things on his own like all kids have to do at some point, but I didn’t expect it when he’s still this young.

Monday is the same. I see him to and from school, but aside from him walking beside me there’s no other interaction but my unanswered questions about his day. I asked Penny for advice, but she just gave me the same directions as Ebb. And I don’t want to talk to Baz about it, because then I’d have to explain why I think Henry’s upset, and we’ve only been boyfriends for a few days. I don’t want to talk about Davy yet. Or ever.

It’s early Tuesday morning, and I’m getting ready to leave the flat to get a couple hours in at the gym when the silence is broken.

Henry actually scares the shit out of me when he suddenly appears in my doorway—I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be awake.

“Hey. You’re up early.” I say, lacing up my trainers. I’ve been trying to make small talk with my own brother for days now, with no results. But he’s here, standing just inside my room, looking at me cautiously. For once, he doesn’t have the red rubber ball with him. Instead, in his hands is what looks like a picture frame.

“Are you busy?” Henry asks, eyeing my gym bag.

I shake my head perhaps a bit too eagerly and sit up to move over to make space for him beside me on my bed.

“No, not busy.” He doesn’t move. “D’you wanna…sit down?” He nods and comes over to sit beside me. His movements are stiff and slow.

I can now see that the item he’s holding is in fact a picture frame. I took that picture. It’s of Mum, tending to the little garden in front of the house we lived in back then. The little cottage with the chicken coop and the leaky roof. I remember taking that photo, how she complained that I was documenting how dirty she was while she worked.

“Uh. So.” I clear my throat. I don’t want to scare him off, not when he’s finally come to me. “What’s, um…what’s going on?”

He takes a deep breath and runs a fingertip over the outline of Mum’s big curly hair in the photo. Her hair was long and curly and always got in my way when I hugged her.

“Simon.” His voice is quiet and serious, and it makes my blood run cold. “Would you rather have her here instead of me?”

For a moment, I’m frozen, like he’s just unexpectedly struck me. I can’t even blink.

I open my mouth to answer this impossible question in a probably inadequate way, and Henry shakes his head.

“Don’t answer that, that was a mean question.” He backtracks, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I just—do you ever get mad at me for what happened?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, though I already have the sinking feeling of knowing exactly what he’s talking about. Something I’ve thought and fretted about him realizing. Something I never wanted to cross his mind. I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me, like I’m falling even though I’m sitting down.

Henry clutches the photo to his chest and watches his thumb trace the edge of the frame. “Do you ever get mad at me because she died? She died when she had me. Do you hate me for that? It’s…it’s okay if you do. I think I’d hate me too.” He blinks, and two twin tears drip down his face.

“ _I_ hate me for it. You talk about her, and it always sounded like she was super nice. And she’s gone because… because of me.” His shoulders slump, like a great weight has just been released. Or like they’re being pushed down by something worse.

Memories flash behind my eyes. The ambulance ride, the hospital staff rushing around, the blood. Mum’s face. Henry, small and pink and alone but for me. (One of the best things in my life came from the worst day of my life, and I didn’t want to think about what kind of effect that would have on him.)

“Henry—” I croak. I’m crying. When did I start crying? I reach for him, and he almost pulls away, but he doesn’t when he sees my face. I don’t know what I look like, but his eyes get wide, and he sets aside the picture to let me pull him into my arms.

I crush him to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve never been good with words. I pray to anyone who’s listening that I say the right ones now.

“Simon?” He asks, so quietly. I guess I’ve been quiet for too long. I realize that I’m holding my breath and stop.

“I don’t—I don’t hate you, please don’t think that.” I say through my tears. My ears feel like they’re buzzing, but I can still hear my voice, broken by sobs and thick with emotion.

“You didn’t kill her, Henry, I promise. It wasn’t your fault—you didn’t—she just died, Henry.” I lower my voice; I was getting too loud. “She died, and it was awful, but you didn’t do it.”

He sobs into my shoulder. “But—”

“No.” I hug him closer and clutch his whole body to my chest. “You’re the only exception in an otherwise tragic day, Henry.”

We’re both crying by the bucketful now. But I’ve got to get through.

I hold Henry at arm’s length and look him dead in the eye. His nose is running, and his cheeks are tearstained and blotchy.

“She wanted you, goddammit.” I tell him, wiping the wetness of his cheeks with one hand. The other one squeezes his shoulder. “You were hers. You _are_ hers. She wanted you so much, and I wanted you too. She would have loved you, no matter what.”

Henry launches back into my arms and sobs. His little arms go around my neck and he buries his face in my shoulder.

“It’s nobody’s fault, least of all yours.” I whisper into his ear. My voice is hoarse from crying. “And I have to believe that if she had to go, then I’m the luckiest person in the world that she left me you. You’re her son, her rosebud boy. You’re just like her, and just like me. And you’re you, Henry. I could never hate you.”

I kiss his forehead and shut my eyes. I can feel his heavy breaths against my neck. “I never wanted you to feel this way, Henry. I’m so sorry if I have ever made you think that I hated you or blamed you for what happened to her.”

“You didn’t. I just think about it a lot.” He mumbles. He sounds exhausted and so sad.

“Christ. I’m so sorry, Henry.”

Henry wipes his eyes and leans into me, letting himself be held. We’re quiet for a long time. I figure going to the gym can wait until after work. I lie back on the bed and Henry curls up next to me.

Outside my window, the pale early morning light gets brighter. I hear Ebb in the kitchen, putting the kettle on.

“We should get you ready for school.” I say.

Henry groans and sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “I know.”

I pat his back. “Go on, get dressed. I’ll make breakfast.”

He gives me a hopeful look over his shoulder. “Scones?”

“Scones, definitely scones.” I laugh. “But you better be dressed by the time they’re cooling, or else I’m giving them all to Ebb.”

“She’d share with me.” He shrugs, still sitting on my bed like a little shit.

“Then I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t tempt me.” I give him a menacing look and he jumps off the bed, scrambling to his room.

“Okay, okay, I’m going! But for your health more than anything!” He shouts as he darts out of my door.

I laugh for a minute, out of equal parts relief and amusement. And I think for a second about Mum. And how she would have loved Henry completely. I figure I’ll love him enough for the both of us.

Then I get up and start on those scones.


	21. Testing the Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon tries to clear the massive hurdle that is Fiona's disapproval of him.

**Baz**

Simon Snow fits into my life like he would a well-tailored suit. That is to say, he’s fitting in well—he almost effortlessly wraps himself into my daily life. (I’ve been fantasizing about him in a suit.)

We’ve kind of abandoned the notion of official dates. For the past few weeks, we’ve just been seeing one another as much as we can. We talk and flirt, and we snog, and we go out to eat, and he smiles at me so, so brightly.

I visit him at work between classes and football practices, and when we both have free time, we take turns showing up at each other’s flats. Henry has come to expect me when I show up at their door, greeting me with a flat, “Tyrannus.” Bunce gripes about how she hardly ever sees Simon without me around.

Technically, we’ve been officially dating for two and half weeks now. I measure time now by how often I see Simon, and by the duration of the visits. I know all about his schedule, and he knows all about mine.

He works Monday through Saturday pretty regularly, but he gets every Sunday and every other Saturday off. He goes to the gym twice a week, in the early mornings or late evenings, and he only fights once a week, usually on Friday nights. (Neither of us have brought that up. I really only know when his fights are happening because Niall tends to go to them.)

Simon and I don’t talk about his fighting. Not before, when he tells me that he has “a thing” to do, and not after, when his knuckles are battered, and he favors tender spots where I assume he has bruises.

By now, I’m well acquainted with Snow’s lips. (He’s made sure of that, much to my delight.) The irresistible pink-reddish colour of them after we’ve snogged for a while, the perfect shape of them, their taste and the feel of them against mine. Simon is an expert kisser, and I’d be bitter about it if he didn’t execute this skill on me.

I also know all about Simon’s face—the broad planes of his nose and cheeks and forehead, his slightly pouchy eyes with their stubby lashes and plainly captivating shade of blue. His square jaw, his bushy brows and freckled cheeks. I’ve been secretly mapping out his moles. There’s more of them scattered on his neck and arms, but I haven’t been lucky enough to see any more of them yet.

His arms and hands, I’ve also obsessed over. We haven’t gone any farther than heated snogging. Which is the farthest thing from a complaint. I’d be happy kissing Simon forever. I’m just so happy with him. Him, holding himself above me on all fours on the floor of my living room, —we fell off the sofa—making me reach up for his mouth. Crushing me to his chest and pressing his lips to mine when I surprised him with curry at his work. Holding my hand when we walk together places, pecking me on the cheek when I make him laugh.

Any time Simon kisses me, I lose all cognizant thought. And he knows it. When I get especially snarky with him, he shuts me right up with his mouth. (I’m embarrassingly amendable to this.)

Simon is my boyfriend now. We make time to see each other, and I know much more about him.

Like how he dated Agatha for a short time when they were in high school. (I wasn’t jealous, because Bunce vehemently insisted that they were both miserable and awkward the whole time, and Simon grudgingly agreed.) I know about Henry’s troubles with his classmates, and about Ebb’s family farm in the country. Simon loves plants and gardening because his mother did, and they spent time gardening together when he was young. He defers to Penny for advice on just about everything. He loves her and Agatha like sisters, and he and Henry are honorary parts of their families as well.

“We go to Mr. and Mrs. Wellbelove’s house every Christmas,” Simon told me once. “And in high school, we used to make hundreds of gingerbread biscuits at Penny’s parents’ house. Now we make them at Penny and Agatha’s flat, because Penny’s mum said that if Penny was moving out, then Henry and I had to go with her.”

And he knows about me, which is terrifying and at the same time comforting. I’ve told him more about my half-siblings and Fiona, and my dreams of teaching, and my love for designer clothes.

Simon fits remarkably well into my life. Dev likes him (so does Niall, who, so far, has stuck around much longer than Dev’s other partners). I get along well with Simon’s family. Bunce, obviously, but also with Ebb, who I’ve grown rather fond of. I simply cannot refrain from being soft towards the woman who gave Simon and his brother a home when they were all by themselves. And Ebb just has this inexplicable calming, loving energy about her. I look at her, and I can’t help but think good things.

Henry is a bit of an enigma. I feel like he just tolerates me. I worry that he thinks I’m stealing away his brother, but he’s not outwardly hostile towards me at all. Whenever I see him, he just greets me with my first name and then goes about his business. Sometimes he’ll squint at me, like he’s trying to read my thoughts, or burn a hole into the side of my head. Simon assures me that Henry is just not quick to taking to new people. He said it took ages for Henry to warm up to Ebb and Penny and Agatha. So I just do my best to be friendly to him and hope that he’ll eventually approve of me. He reminds me quite a bit of Mordelia. Terribly introspective for his young age. Dangerously observant and sharp-tongued. (I am finding that I enjoy Henry immensely; he embarrasses Simon with amusing anecdotes about his older brother, and almost never misses an opportunity to do so.)

One thing I do understand about Henry is that he loves his brother more than anything. He teases Simon mercilessly, but he clings to him like a lifeline. So, one thing we have in common is a shared adoration of Simon.

And on Simon’s side of things, the family member of mine he needs to worry about impressing is Fiona. (And my father—but I’ve given up on that. Simon’s not a woman, so I’ve already lost that battle.)

I know that Daphne and the children will adore him, because Simon is like the human embodiment of sunshine and friendliness. He’s basically a human version of a golden retriever. I’ve seen how Simon interacts with regular customers at his work, and even complete strangers he comes across. He makes acquaintances and friends almost as much as he makes scones. (The man is _obsessed_ with scones.)

Fiona’s the one I’m worried about. I still have time before I need to introduce Simon to my family back at Pitch Manor (I may be getting ahead of myself; we haven’t even been dating for a month, but I’ve been all in since he took me dancing), but Fiona lives in my bloody building. She’s probably even more skeptical now than my father will be. Not because Simon is a man; she’s always been supportive of my sexuality. But because of his…hobby. She’s seen him fight, knows his reputation. I think she’s worried I’m dating a monster. Someone who could snap and hurt me.

Once Fiona’s decided something, trying to change her mind is like trying to stop a runaway train. She’s made up her mind about who she thinks Simon is, and when I told her that he was my boyfriend, she insisted that she had to meet him.

“Invite him to one of our weekly dinners or something, Baz. I’m the only one you’ve got to look after you in this city, I need to meet the bloke you’re shagging, make sure he’s not a rotten one.” (I didn’t even bother trying to explain to her that we’re not _shagging_.) (Yet.) (Fuck, I’ve got to stop thinking about that, I’ll drive myself mad.)

I know it all comes from a place of love and protectiveness—Fiona says she has to look out for me since we’re the only Pitches left—but I still want her to approve of Simon. And it’s hard to explain to Fiona that Simon is a good person for me when she has a violent image of him in her head. And Fiona may be ridiculous and annoying, but she’s one of the most important people in my life. I want her to at least approve of the man I’m dating.

So now I’m going to have dinner with my boyfriend and my aunt. Simon got nervous when I asked him to come, so I also invited Dev and Niall as buffers, because Fiona can be terrifying when she wants to.

“You mean you want me to make friends with your aunt? The scary one? Who doesn’t approve of me?” Simon’s voice was higher than usual over the phone.

“She doesn’t know you like I know you. She only knows you from your, um, street fighting career.” I said.

“Oh, Christ.” Simon groaned. I could picture him rubbing his face with one hand as he talked to me. “What if she saw me go off? I’m lucky _you_ didn’t run scared from me.”

“Simon.” I felt bad for the whole situation, so I let my voice go soft. “She just wants to meet you. You’re wonderful, and she’ll see that, and everything will be fine.”

“But if it’s just the three of us, then I won’t know what I say and I’m absolute shit with words, and—”

“I’ll invite Dev and Niall too. They’ll talk enough for the both of us.”

So now I’m here. Preparing dinner in my kitchen while Dev and Niall set the table and Snow silently panics as he helps me cook. Really, he’s the one doing all the work.

I’ve learned that you can tell how stressed Simon is by how much he bakes and cooks. A few weeks ago, he and Henry got into a row of some kind, and he made an entire cake and several dozen scones over the course of two days. Henry warned me about Simon’s plant con, but nobody warned me about the dramatic influx of baked goods dating Simon would bring into my diet. I can’t eat them all my myself—though they’re delicious enough that I’d want to try. So, I’ve shared a good bit of them with Dev and Niall and even Fiona, who had to admit that my boyfriend has talent in baking.

Simon’s going all out tonight. He came over this afternoon, hours before the set dinnertime, a box of ingredients in his arms and a determined look on his face.

“I’m taking over your kitchen.” He declared, marching past me into my flat. I love how casual we are now. I’m welcome in his home and he’s more than welcome in mine. Several times now, he’s shown up in my flat and will occasionally throw something together for us to eat in my kitchen, and we’ll cuddle on my sofa and watch action movies we relentlessly make fun of. And when I go over to his, he always has something baking in the oven, and he’ll pile all the colourful throw blankets he can find on top of me. And we’ll chat with Ebb and Henry and it’s so cozy I could cry.

Tonight, he’s made his own bread, which is now setting out to cool on the table and smells delicious. (He put all kinds of fragrant herbs in it.) He’s also made his own pasta and marinara sauce from scratch. I watched him, uselessly holding one of my rarely used oven mitts as he chopped onions and mushrooms and rolled meatballs.

I wanted to make a joke, something about him doing all the work while I just stood there looking pretty, but he was in his own plane of existence, and I didn’t want to break him out of whatever intense cooking state he was in.

My boyfriend came prepared. He wore an apron over here, which made my day infinitely better. He brought nicer trousers and another shirt to wear after he’s done cooking, and everything is ready now except for the chocolate tarts he’s preparing to put in the oven. Dev and Niall only got here about ten minutes ago, and Simon hasn’t spared them a single glance.

Dev sidles up to me now, and we both watch Snow work. (Watching him cook shouldn’t be as sexy as it is, considering how much of a mess he makes. My kitchen floor is dusted in flour, and there are dishes and various utensils everywhere.) (But Snow is attractive doing just about anything. There’s a bit of flour in his hair, and all kinds of stains on his shirt and apron, but he’s still so lovely in a delightfully domestic way.)

“I do not envy Snow right now. Having to go up against Fi.” He says lowly, so Snow can’t hear.

“Is she that bad?” Niall asks from Dev’s side, just as quiet.

Dev shudders and grimaces. “That woman scares the shit out of me.”

“Isn’t she your aunt?”

“She’s _Baz’s_ aunt. On the Pitch side. I’m technically not blood related to her.”

“Ah.”

We’re all quiet for a second, watching Snow. He’s started to clean up now that the tarts are in the oven.

My flat smells incredible. Simon’s spaghetti has a rich, spicy aroma. And soon the dessert is going to smell just as good. I never thought my kitchen would ever get this kind of use. I’m not one for cooking.

I figure tidying up is one thing I can help with, so I come up behind Simon as he scrubs at a pot in the sink and kiss the mole on his neck, wrapping my arms around his waist.

“Need some help, love?” I murmur into his ear. Every time I call him love, he melts, and this time is no different. I feel some tension come out of his shoulders and he leans back into me.

“If you want. M’just cleaning up now. Sorry about the mess.” He says.

I kiss his neck again, just because I can. A lovely shiver goes up Snow’s spine, and he sighs.

“It’s all right, love. Everything looks amazing.” I turn him around and take his wet hands in mine. Kiss his forehead. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, eyes darting everywhere. I’ve never seen him quite this anxious before. He knows how much Fiona means to me. His nervousness is endearing, because everything he does seems to further endear him to me, but I prefer Simon when he’s calm and happy.

“You go change. I’ll clean up.” I say, slowly drawing him away from the kitchen.

He nods. “Okay.” Takes a deep breath. “Okay. Be right back.” He leans up and kisses me on the cheek, and then he disappears into my bathroom with his extra set of clothes.

When the door shuts behind him, I look sharply at Dev and Niall.

“Make yourselves useful, come help me tidy up.”

Dev rolls his eyes as he comes over to start gathering dirty dishes into his arms to deliver to the sink. “Unbelievable. It’s like you’re a completely different person with him. You’re _never_ that nice to me.”

“Baz can’t help that Simon has him wrapped around his little finger.” Niall smirks.

I shove a broom into his arms and snarl, “Shut up.”

They both laugh and I ignore them, the tips of my ears burning red because Niall’s right. Simon is becoming the brightest star in my sky. He’s the sun.

We’ve got the kitchen under control by the time Simon comes out of my bathroom. He’s wearing fresh clothes. Dark trousers and that nice white shirt that shows off his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up so his tattoos are visible.

He’s washed his face with my cedar and bergamot soap. I can smell it on him as he walks by to check the tarts in the oven. I love that he smells like me right now. His hair is a little longer. It’s still that that golden brown colour, but I can’t quite make out the shape of curls yet. (Simon told me that he used to have them before he started buzzing his hair regularly, and I begged him to let it grow out. He said he already was, and I’m ecstatic about it.) I probably only notice that it’s grown because it was so short in the first place.

There’s a sharp knock at my door, and then Fiona barges in with a bottle of wine and a cigarette that she wisely puts out as soon as she walks in.

“Evening, boys. Did you guys cook or something? It smells delicious.”

“Simon cooked for us.” I say proudly, shuffling my boyfriend over to meet my aunt like he’s a toddler.

“Simon, this is my aunt Fiona. Fi, this is Simon.” I introduce them, silently begging with my eyes for Fiona to be civil. She hardly looks at me; she’s took busy looking Simon up and down, like she’s cataloging him for weaknesses.

Simon sticks out his hand and smiles a little nervously. “Hullo. It’s nice to really, uh, meet you. I mean, I’ve seen you before in the lift, but uh, yeah. Hi.” My gorgeous, bumbling boyfriend. I want to put my head in my hands, but my heart also swells with affection.

My heart drops into my stomach when she narrows her eyes, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Simon Snow. Didn’t take you for a cooking type.”

“It’s Salisbury, actually. Snow is my middle name. But I cook all the time. It’s something I love to do.” Simon lets his hand fall and wipes it on his trousers. He glances nervously over his shoulder at me.

“He bakes too!” Dev says, entering the conversation in that obliviously bold way he does. “Hey, Fiona.”

Fiona gives him a cool look. “Dev.” She likes to give him a hard time, but I know she likes him, even if he is a Grimm.

“And who’s this?” She looks over to Niall. He and Fiona have very similar punk aesthetics. I can see Fiona take note of the metal spikes on the shoulders of Niall’s top, and of his clunky Doc Martens. She has a pair of them too.

“Oh, this is my boyfriend, Niall.” Dev says.

Niall nods at Fiona. “Hey.”

“So,” Simon clears his throat and gestures towards the table. “Dinner? The marina sauce is vegetarian, because I didn’t know what everyone preferred, but I did make meatballs too if you’re into it.”

“That sounds great.” I say.

We all go to the table. I sit next to Snow, who sits next to Fiona. Dev and Niall take the other side. For a few minutes, everyone is too busy putting together their plates to make conversation. Simon slices the bread—it’s amazing, with lovely scoring in the shape of a flower and good golden brown colour. I pour the wine and when everyone starts eating, wordless noises of enjoyment break the silence.

The spaghetti is delicious. I don’t know how Simon makes simple things like this so good, but he does.

“Holy _shit_ , Simon.” Niall says emphatically after he’s taken his first bite. Dev nods in assent, too busy stuffing more food into his mouth to speak.

“This is really good.” Fiona says with a frown. She obviously doesn’t like complimenting Simon, but even she can’t deny a well-cooked meal when it’s put in front of her.

Simon blushes, fiddling with the napkin in his lap. “Thanks.”

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Fiona asks. She takes a sip from her wine glass, eyes narrowed at Snow.

Simon swallows and says, “My foster mum taught me the basics. And then it was just YouTube tutorials and stuff.”

I hold my breath. _Please don’t be a bitch, please don’t be a bitch._

Luckily, Fiona doesn’t dig into anything complicated. “So where are you from, Salisbury?”

“Uh, kind of a lot of places. Wales and Lancashire, mostly.”

“And what about your family?” I feel like I’m witnessing a police interrogation. Fiona is looking at Simon like she wants to pick him apart. Simon is nervous, but he’s nothing if not brave and always ready to rise to a challenge. And Fiona is incredibly challenging.

“I have a foster mother named Ebb, and a little brother, Henry. He’s nine.”

Fiona doesn’t take the sibling bait. Like a wolf with an opening, she goes for the throat.

“So you’re an orphan then. What of your real parents?”

“ _Fiona_ ,” I snap, wishing I was sitting next to her so I could kick her under the table. And so Simon wouldn’t have to be right beside her. I feel like I’ve led a lamb to the slaughter.

A good bit of colour has drained from Simon’s face, and my stomach sinks with guilt. I shouldn’t have planned this. Fiona is vicious and vindictive; this was a terrible idea.

“I, uh,” Simon stutters. Across the table, Dev has his head in his hands and Niall is just staring at Fiona in shock.

“Fiona, stop it.” I say through gritted teeth, glaring at her. She ignores me.

“Do you know who your birth parents are?” She pries further. I vividly imagine throwing her out of my flat. Through the window.

Simon looks like someone just slapped him silly. There’s no colour left in his face. He’s shredding the napkin in his lap with his hands.

“Uh, yeah. My—my mum died, and, uh,” he struggles to speak.

Fiona has no sympathy. “And your father?”

Suddenly, Simon’s bewilderment at Fiona’s cruel line of questioning turns into something else. I see a flash of pure panicked fear flit across his face, and then he gets angry. I’ve never seen Snow get angry outside of the ring. Blood rushes back into his face, and colours his cheeks and ears bright red. He glares at Fiona, nostrils flaring.

“I don’t see how my family is any of your business.” He growls. His accent is thicker. Rougher. He sounds like a brute. The polite, conversational tone he was using before is gone.

Fiona raises an eyebrow, unphased by Simon’s anger. “You’re dating my nephew.”

“So?” Simon snarls. He’s well past riled up now, and I think this is what Fiona wanted, based on the satisfied gleam in her eye. “That doesn’t give you the right to be a bitch about my fucking past.”

“Why not?” Fiona shoots right back.

“Because it’s none of your business!” Simon roars.

Dev and Niall have abandoned pretending to eat, and are now watching Simon and Fiona argue, their eyes darting between the two as they speak, like spectators at a tennis match watching the ball fly back and forth. I’m right there with them.

I try to defuse the situation in vain. “Guys, let’s not—”

Fiona talks right over me. “Am I making you mad, Simon Snow? Going to go off on me, are you?”

Simon stands abruptly from the table, sending his chair over onto the floor dramatically. Fiona gets up at well, staring him down. For a second, I think he is going to go off on Fiona. He looks like he could kill her, and for a moment fear paralyzes me. His blue eyes are on fire, and his fists are shaking at his sides. There’s a flush coming up his neck as he glowers at her. Broad shoulders squared, muscled arms straining to be still.

Then he looks over and sees Dev and Niall, frozen in their seats, holding their breaths in fear. He seems to snap out of it. He lowers his head and unclenches his fists. The light catches his eye for a moment, and I see that they’re glistening with tears.

“Fuck you.” He says quietly to Fiona. Then he slowly turns around, gently stands his chair back up, and leaves. He doesn’t look at anyone as he storms out of my flat. The door closes softly behind him. He doesn’t slam it, even when it would be fair of him to do so. I do hear his footsteps stomping angrily down the hallway.

For a moment, all of us are stunned silent. Then I look over at Fiona, my own anger rushing back now that the shock has worn off.

“What in the everloving fuck is wrong with you?” I ask. It comes out loud and accusing. Good.

Fiona calmly sits back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap. Her face is smooth and contemplative. “We don’t have time to go over what’s wrong with me, boyo.” She says absently.

I stand up and throw my hands in the air. “Why couldn’t you be a cordial human being for once in your damn life? I really like him, Fiona. He cares about me, and he was scared to meet you and now look—”

“I like him too.” Fiona says casually, shrugging.

I stare at her, mouth agape. Dev says what I’m thinking. “ _What?_ Then why were you such a tit?”

My aunt takes a slice of the bread and pops a piece into her mouth. Chews for a moment, and swallows. “Wanted to see if he’d get violent. But he held himself back.” She shrugs again, infuriatingly. “Seems all right.”

“ _Fiona_ —” I growl.

“I know, I know. I’ll apologize to him on another day. In the meantime,” She glances over at the door. “You should probably go check on your bloke.”

Then she stands, dusting off her leather pants. “I’ll make myself scarce.”

We watch her saunter to the door and shut it behind her.

“See what I mean?” Dev says to Niall as I put on my coat to go and track down my boyfriend. “The woman is terrifying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry it's been so long since I've posted. My free time has been swallowed by adult things lately, and inspiration hasn't found it's way to me for a while. But I'm back for the time being, and the words are coming to me again. Thanks to everyone who has shown support for this fic with kudos and comments, ya'll are so sweet.


	22. Mine for Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon is scared of telling Baz the truth about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an itty bitty chapter from Simon's point of view. I just wanted his thoughts and reactions to the horrible dinner with Fiona.  
> (WARNING: MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE)

**Simon**

Baz finds me just a few minutes after I ran out of his flat. I’m in the stairwell, sitting on the landing of his floor with my head in my hands, palms pressed to my closed eyes. I know it’s him without looking. I heard his even, graceful footsteps come down the hall, hear his hitched intake of breath when he opens the door and sees me. (His strides are naturally longer than mine,—he took less steps to get here than I did—all of his height is in his long legs.)

Neither of us say anything. Baz silently comes to sit beside me on the steps. I know he must feel really bad, because he hates getting his clothes dirty, and these steps are kind of grimy. (He’s a bit of a neat freak.)

Everything feels too hot. I’m burning up, in more ways than one.

I don’t like to call women bitches, but Baz’s aunt…well, she makes me want to bloody start. I hate that she got to me like that, cut right to the bone of my trauma so easily. I felt like I could have gone off, right there. My rage burned so hot and bright for a moment, and then the sadness and shame of everything hit me like a fucking train and I’ve been crying, out here in the stairwell. Big, fat, angry tears roll down my cheeks. I’ve quieted my sobs, but I’m still crying. I’m covering my eyes, but Baz can definitely see the tear tracks on my face.

I haven’t told Baz about Davy. Or about the care homes, or the fact that Davy’s out of prison now. We’re in this really nice place in our relationship right now. Everything is still pretty new, but it’s just starting to get more comfortable. I don’t know how to tell him about everything. It’s hard to bring up my abusive, fresh out of prison father when we’re still getting to know each other, still trying to fit together.

It’s a minute or two before Baz speaks. His voice is low and apologetic and gentle, and it makes me feel better and worse at the same time.

“I’m so sorry, Simon. If I’d known she was going to be like that, I wouldn’t have planned this.”

I shake my head, removing my hands from my face so I can look at him. He’s so beautiful, and I’m this broken, tear-stained mess sitting here beside him on these dirty steps.

“It’s not your fault.” I say, wiping at my eyes. “Is she…is she always like that?” I ask after a pause.

Baz presses his lips together and exhales through his nose. “More or less, I suppose. She was trying to antagonize you. Testing your temper.”

I rest my arms on my thighs and look down at my palms. Mumble, “I think I failed that test.”

“She was actually impressed by your restraint, I think.”

“Oh, lovely.” I say sarcastically. “I didn’t clock your aunt at the dinner table, what a great first impression I’ve made.” Baz cringes at my tone, and I feel bad.

I slowly lean my shoulder into his, and he instantly wraps his arm around me.

“Sorry.” I say quietly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Simon.”

Maybe he’s right. It doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been holding things back from him, keeping parts of myself out of his reach. Hopefully I’ll never have to see my father again, but the imprint of him inside my head might never go away.

Baz isn’t an idiot. He definitely knows I’ve been holding out on him about certain aspects of my past. He knows about my mum dying, and about when Ebb adopted me and Henry, but there’s this rather sizable blank spot between the two events. A spot where Davy and his heavy fists and the care homes and their cold, hungry fear go. I’ve told him nothing about those years. There’re things missing from the timeline of me he has, and he’s aware of that, but he never pushes me to talk about it. Never pries.

Baz is kind of a naturally private person. If he offers up tidbits of information about himself, there’s usually more I have to draw out of him, memories and emotions he’s more protective over. But with patience and the proper prodding, he’ll talk about his issues. His struggles with his father—about his sexuality, his plans for the future. The survivor’s guilt he feels from when his mum died in that fire, but he lived. I know about his claustrophobia and his fear of fire. (He doesn’t have any candles in his flat, and he always checks the gas stove is off before he leaves.)

I think if I opened up about the worse parts of my past, it would all burst out of me in this terrible flood of trauma and pain and raw emotion and just completely scare Baz away. We’re three weeks into being boyfriends, and it’s been so amazing. I don’t want to ruin it. I don’t want to encumber our budding romance with the reasons behind my scars and nightmares and flinching at sudden movements.

And what if I come clean about everything and Baz realizes that maybe I’m too damaged to be worth his time? What if he realizes that I have more baggage than I’m worth, and leaves?

Maybe Fiona was right to test me like she did. What if she saw what I really am? A broken, bad-tempered bloke with serious issues who is most certainly not good enough for her nephew.

Baz is perfect. He’s brilliant and inhumanly handsome and talented and graceful as fuck, and I’m this frumpy, fucked-up person.

Once Baz realizes that, he’ll see his aunt’s reasoning and dump me. I don’t think I’d blame him, not really.

So why can’t I just enjoy him while I have him? We’re still in this soft, sweet beginning phase of dating. He doesn’t know about my harsher issues, so he’s still with me. I don’t need to tell him about Davy or the homes just yet. Why can’t we just stay in this spot for a while? Where everything is fun and exciting and nice?

I don’t want to lose Baz. He’s one of the best things that has ever happened to me. There’s more than a twinge of guilt in my stomach from this line of reasoning, but I ignore it. Shut it right the fuck up by turning and pressing my lips to Baz’s.

His hands come up and cup my face as he kisses me back, and I have him. Just for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to everyone who has shown appreciation and support for my fic with kudos and comments! Ya'll keep me going


	23. Working it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny has an announcement, Simon's got problems, and Baz and Simon go to the gym.

**Simon**

“So, I’ve got some news about me to share.” Penny announces as she comes into my flat.

Ebb is at work, and Henry and I have just got back from his school. He’s eating crisps at an alarming rate as he looks over his homework, and I’m sitting next to him at the kitchen table, pretending to help when really, I’m just stuffing crisps into my mouth as well and messing around on my phone. (It’s not like he needs my help anyway.) (I wouldn’t _be_ much help.)

“What is it?” Henry asks, because my mouth is full.

Penny dumps her backpack and purse by the door and comes over to sit with us, pushing her bushy ponytail behind a shoulder.

She actually looks kind of shy for a moment, which immediately catches my attention. Penny doesn’t really do shy all that often. She tucks flyaway strands of hair behind her ears and pushes her glasses up her nose, giving herself a pause before speaking.

“I have a new boyfriend.”

I put my phone down and sit up. “Wait, what? Who? Since when?” I didn’t even know Penny liked anyone recently. Of course, I suppose I didn’t ask.

“It’s Shepard. The American guy from my study group? You’ve met him, Simon.”

“What’s with you and Americans?” Henry asks, wrinkling his nose. We don’t acknowledge him.

“I didn’t know you liked him like that.” I say, scratching my head. “So…you’re together now?”

I suppose it’s been a while since Penny has even been interested in anyone, much less being interested in putting a label on it. She actively decided she was going to be by herself for a bit after her and Micah broke it off. It took her some time to heal and figure some things out. Shepard seems like an all right bloke though. Really talkative, like Penny. I don’t know how anyone is going to get a word in edgewise around those two.

Penny grins, and she looks really happy, and it makes _me_ happy.

“As of yesterday, yeah. I really like him.” Penny blushes, voice going quieter.

“What’s he like?” Henry asks.

Penny smiles wider. Her eyes crinkle around the edges with how much she’s smiling. “He’s a bio major, and he’s really into cryptids and mysteries and he’s really fun to be around.”

“Huh.” Henry says. “Well, that’s nice.” And he goes back to his long division.

“I’m really happy for you, Pen.” I smile at her.

She grins back, folding her arms on the table and leaning to rest her head on them comfortably. Her Mary Janes knock against the chair legs. She’s so bright and happy, it reminds me of when she’d get bonus questions on tests exactly right back in high school.

“Thanks, Simon. Shep is really great. We just kind of fit, you know? But it’s still so exciting. How are you and Baz?”

I stuff a handful of crisps into my mouth, delaying my answer. Baz and I are fine. Better than fine, really. We see each other almost every day, and it’s always great. He makes smartass comments and I make less-smart comments and we laugh and talk and kiss. (Kissing Baz is easily one of my favorite things to do.)

My feelings for him are deepening. Every time his walls come down and his doors open, I find myself adoring him more and more. I just…

There’s nothing wrong with Baz himself. Baz is perfect, and I care about him a lot. And even when we’re not snogging, I like being around him so much. _He’s_ wonderful. The problems are all me.

Baz lets himself be vulnerable with me. It’s not natural for him, and he’s told me about how he kept himself cold and isolated for a long time when he was younger and is still trying to break down those icy walls now. He’s opened up to me about the most painful things in his life. The accident that killed his mother, the survivor’s guilt and depression that have followed him around since.

There are these incredible, tender moments when his sharp words fall aside and he’s so much softer than he lets himself be most of the time. They’re rare and beautiful and they make me feel trustworthy and good and at the same time as if I’m constantly lying to him.

He knows that I’m damaged in a similar way to him, but he doesn’t know that it’s so much worse. After these soft moments happen, I feel guilty. Talking about his feelings is hard for Baz, and I’m so happy he trusts me enough to do that with me, but I don’t give him the same courtesy.

The guilt is gnawing at me. He doesn’t know how bad of a deal he’s getting. The fucked-up parts of me travel all throughout who I am, and the only ones he knows about are the ones on the surface. I’m not actively keeping the truth from him, but I’m definitely not offering it up either. Passive omission makes me feel just as bad as covering up the truth.

This relationship with Baz…we’re not very far in. Not even a month yet, and I feel so invested already. In a short period of time, he’s become a very precious person in the circle of people I care about.

I want to stay with him, so badly. And honesty is important in a healthy relationship, and I prefer being honest. I’m just terrified coming clean about all my problems will scare him away.

My mind keeps ping-ponging between my desire to be honest and deepen my relationship with Baz, and my just as powerful fear of him running away if I unpack my baggage.

And I know that the longer I put off just coming clean abut everything, the worse the fallout will be, whether the fallout is him being furious with me for not telling him sooner, or him just leaving me. (And there’s a worse option in there; Baz _pitying_ me, like every adult I had to talk to after the authorities finally took me and Henry away from Davy.) I don’t think I could stand seeing pity for me in his eyes.

I have this awful dream that’s been frequent since I started dating Baz. It starts out fine. We’re sitting on his sofa together, kissing and cuddling. And then things start getting more…heated. Which would be perfectly fine, if a little embarrassing. (Am I allowed to have wet dreams about my boyfriend? We haven’t gone farther than snogging, I don’t know if I even have a right.)

And every time I have this dream, and it starts getting to the sexier parts, when Baz is taking off my clothes and I’m breathless and kissing at any part of him I can reach,—and even in my dream his eyes are so, so grey—he finally gets my shirt off, and then—

Everything just stops. And dream-Baz sees my bare chest and back, sees the physical evidence of a violent, abusive childhood trapped forever in my flesh…

In my dream, he’s not disgusted or scared. He’s _sad_. He feels bad for me. And then suddenly he’s all the way across the room, and I can’t touch him, and he won’t touch me, and he won’t talk when I call his name. And when I chase after him, he keeps moving away, always out of my reach. Just staring at me with his grey eyes and frowny lips and wrinkled brow as I try to get to him. And my scars are burning, and my heart is breaking, and I can’t ever get him back. He’s made of mist and my legs are heavy as bricks and nothing I say or do reaches him.

I always wake up from those dreams in a cold sweat, sometimes crying. Feeling so hopelessly empty and broken.

I’ve taken too long to answer Penny, and now she’s looking at me worriedly. “Uh, we—we’re fine.” I tell her. It comes out all strained and suspicious, and she narrows her eyes at me. I hold my breath for a moment, but luckily, she lets it go. Usually she’d try and drag the truth out of me, but she holds herself back with Henry in the room.

Later in the day, Penny has gone home, and Henry has long since finished his homework. He’s showered and gotten into his pyjamas and has claimed the telly to watch cartoons. I’m putting on my running shoes, expecting Ebb home from work any minute now. As soon as she’s here, I’m heading to the gym. I have all this nervous energy bouncing around inside my body, and I need to let it out.

I’ve left a big pot of stew on the stove, which has been slowly cooking and smelling more and more delicious for hours. That takes care of dinner for tonight. All I need is for Ebb to come home to be with Henry, and then I can jog to my usual gym up the block and expend my extra energy.

My mobile rings, and I fumble to answer it quickly. Henry glares at me from the sofa; he doesn’t like his cartoon time to be interrupted. I smile sheepishly at him as I bring the phone up to my ear and go into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I didn’t look at the name on the screen when I picked up, so it’s a pleasant surprise to hear Baz’s cool, even voice on the other end.

“Hello, Snow. Any plans for this fine evening?”

I lean against my door, fighting back a smile. “I was just going to go to the gym for a bit. What’s up?”

He heaves a long, over-dramatic sigh and now I do smile, because I can practically picture him in my mind’s eye, putting the back of his hand against his forehead like he’s feeling faint.

“I have been trapped in my flat all day, revising essays. The only light I’ve seen is that from my laptop screen. Tell me, Snow. Is the outside world still there? Is London still standing? I wouldn’t know.”

He’s wining like someone is handing out awards for it, and it’s adorable.

“I can’t even remember what _year_ it is Snow. Have I missed Christmas? Mordelia’s graduation? I hope the children haven’t forgotten me.”

“What happened to the brilliant Baz Pitch and his effortlessly perfect marks?” I tease. He huffs over the phone, and I’d bet money he’s rolling his eyes.

“I’m being facetious, Simon. Obviously, my work is excellent. I’ve just been bent over my desk all day and I’m antsy and bored. Can I go to the gym with you? I’m desperate for literally any activity that doesn’t involve my schoolwork.”

“Oh, sure, if you want. It’s not a very, um, posh place, but I’ve been going there for years.”

“Excellent. Text me the address and I’ll meet you there.”

“All right.”

We hang up the phone, and I text him my gym’s address, and then Ebb comes home. I hug her as I go out the door.

“Stew’s ready on the stove, don’t wait for me to eat.”

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” She laughs as I quickly kiss her on the cheek and make for the door.

“Going to the gym with Baz.”

“That’s gay!” Henry shouts from the sofa. Trixie and Keris next door taught him that recently, and I still haven’t forgiven them for it. Now, any time Henry hears that Baz and I are doing _anything_ , he declares that it’s gay. Which, I mean, he isn’t wrong. Baz and I are two blokes after all, but still.

“Shut up!” I shout back, closing the door behind me.

When I get to my gym, Baz is leaning up against the outer wall, casually scrolling through something on his phone, and I’m so happy to see him and spend time with him.

“Baz, hey!” I’m already calling out a greeting when I take in what he’s wearing, and my brain shuts down so hard. Like when someone in a movie pulls down a giant lever and all the lights go out. My mouth drops open and I almost trip over my own feet.

I expected Baz to show up in some kind of workout gear, —shorts or something—and I expected it to distract me somewhat, because Baz’s legs are just fucking incredible. (Long and toned and smooth and strong.) But I didn’t expect _this_.

Baz is wearing leggings. (And I thought Baz in jeans was distracting.)

The leggings are the tight, fashionable, stretchy kind that Agatha tends to wear around her flat. (She calls clothes like that “activewear,” though I never see her do anything active in them. All the really wears them for is sitting on the sofa.)

They’re black, and cling to Baz’s incredible legs like they were painted on, accenting the impressive musculature of his legs with the diagonal stripes of silvery grey around his thighs and his calves. And there’s this strip of see-through fabric running up the outer sides, hinting at the lovely reddish-brown skin underneath.

I can’t find any words as he looks up from his phone at me and smiles a little smile.

“Hey,” He pushes off from the wall and comes over to me where I’ve basically stopped functioning like a person just in front of the gym. “All right, Snow?”

I struggle to swallow, because I can see his back in the reflection of the gym’s front window and the way his arse looks in these leggings is a crime against my sanity. I didn’t stop to think about how fit my fucking boyfriend was when I invited him to come along. How am I supposed to get anything done when all I can think about are all the debauched things I want to do to Baz?

It’s overwhelming, my attraction to him. I want to do things with him I’ve never really wanted to do with anyone before, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating and just completely consuming my brain right now.

“Um, er—yeah.” I say, face burning. I tear my gaze away from his legs—and his arse—and look up at his face, but his face is gorgeous too, and he’s looking at me now with one eyebrow raised, and a slow, smug smirk is creeping along his lips. With a start, I realize that this wanker knows _exactly_ what he’s doing to me.

I glare at him, trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks and the urge to snog that self-satisfied look off his face.

“You—you fucking—” I bluster, and now he’s definitely smirking.

“Is there a problem, Snow?” He’s so fucking smug. The bastard juts out his right hip and rests his hand on it. I can see the exact shape of his hip bone through the thin fabric of his leggings, and it makes my mouth go completely dry. My mouth hangs open again as my eyes involuntarily drop down and try to memorize the exact shape of his thighs.

His other hand comes up and gently cups my chin, closing my mouth. His thumb brushes lightly over my lips, and I want to nip at it with my teeth or suck it into my mouth. I want to do so many things to this infuriating, sexy man in front of me.

But I also don’t want to give him any more satisfaction over flustering me like this. I shake my head and pull out of his grip, brushing past him to open the door.

“Nope, no problem. You ready?” I say briskly. I hold the door open for him, and them immediately realize my mistake, because now Baz takes the opportunity to walk past me teasingly slow with his long legs and his perfect arse, and Jesus Christ, his hair is up in a little ponytail at the back of his neck. I can see the tendons in his neck as he turns his head to the side to smirk at me again.

“Oh, I’m ready for anything, love.” He practically purrs, sending a pleasant buzz down my spine and more of a flush to my face. It’s an effort not to just drag him back out of the building now and force him up against a wall somewhere more private to make him thoroughly regret his fucking teasing. (Though I get the feeling he’d like that, the wanker.)

But this isn’t the time or place for that. And I came here for a reason, however foggy it may be now. I won’t let Baz and his conniving wardrobe choices derail me from my workout routine.

I let the door close behind us and we step into the entryway of the gym. There’s not a reception desk or anything here, but to the left there’s an office for the manager next to the locker room doors. The whole thing is just one big space, divided into sections with specific kinds of machinery and gear.

There’s a line of running and climbing machines and right up against the big front window, where people who run can look out at the street. There’s a large cluster of various weight-lifting machines and benches in one corner next to a bunch of weight racks. I use pretty much everything whenever I’m here, but the real reason I go to this gym is the boxing ring and equipment. The ring is in the center of the room. It’s well-used, but better than the one I fight in at the bar. And off to the side of it is the line of punching bags hanging from the ceiling.

The gym is locally owned and run by a gruff older woman named Margaret. I’ve never seen her exercise once since I became a member here. Margaret is always wearing at least two rings on every single one of her fingers and has big white hair she always ties back with a sparkly red scarf. She’s American, and doesn’t talk much, and wears cowboy boots all the time. I can see her now inside her office, reading a magazine. I wave at her and she gives me a little salute with her ringed hand, not glancing up more than once.

She’s said I’m allowed to bring guests here, though I never have, so she doesn’t so much as blink at Baz.

“So, um, I was going to lift weights and, uh, hit things. What do you want to do?”

“Hmm.” Baz slips off his coat as he looks around, and I make a terrible choking sound in my throat. _Of course,_ Baz would have a matching top to go with his leggings. Just as tight and flattering. It’s sleeveless, and clings to him in an entirely too distracting way.

His slim, muscular arms and toned chest and everything is on display. I can see his collarbones jutting out a bit under the collar of the top. My eyes follow the natural arch of his back and the V-shape of his shoulders and chest and narrow waist.

Shit.

His lips quirk up again in that cocky smirk that’s as infuriating as it is attractive.

“Let’s—let’s go put our things away.” I turn and lead him into the men’s locker room. We put our stuff down and then come back out. Baz plugs his earbuds into his ears—his phone is in his hand as he scrolls through his music.

“I think I’m going to run for a bit. Call if you need me to spot you or something, love.” He bends to kiss me on the cheek and then saunters over to a treadmill. And I do mean saunter. Hips-swaying, shoulders squared. (His arse should be illegal.)

Baz is the kind of person who knows exactly how gorgeous he is, and how to maximize it. He has a bathroom cabinet and counter full of all kinds of beauty products for his hair and his skin. I’ve never been inside his closet, but I assume his wardrobe is extensive because I’ve never seen him in the exact same outfit twice. I’m under the impression that Baz looks great no matter what. He’s just the kind of pretty that doesn’t even need help, though there is something quintessentially Baz about being perfectly put-together and done-up.

For a minute or so, all I can do is watch him, mesmerized, as he chooses the settings on the treadmill and starts to run. His movements are fluid and effortless and graceful as fuck, and I suddenly wonder what he looks like when he plays football. I’ll have to go to one of his games sometime to find out, I suppose. And to see him all kitted up in football gear.

When Baz looks over his shoulder and sees me still just standing doing nothing, he raises his eyebrows and smirks again.

“Weren’t you going to do something, Snow?” He says.

I startle and blush and hurry over to the weights with my head down, ignoring his laughter. Luckily, we’re the only two people here tonight except for Margaret.

I stretch and do some weightlifting, occasionally glancing over at Baz to make sure he’s doing okay. (And to ogle him, whatever.) (Fit bastard.)

Really, I kind of speed through the lifting stuff. It’s not really what I wanted to do today. I do enough to feel satisfied and then move on. Soon enough, I’m wrapping up my hands and attaching a punching bag to the ceiling.

Baz has his earbuds in, but I don’t really work out with music or the telly. I like how my head goes quiet when I’m moving like this, kind of like it does when I work with plants or bake. All my thoughts and anxieties drift away to the background where I like them to be, and all that’s in my head is a pleasant nothingness and simple thoughts about the task at hand.

I get into a good rhythm, and all my focus zeroes in on the bag in front of me, on its movements and on mine. How my fists pound into it, my stance and my center of gravity, my breathing, the bead of sweat slowly dripping down from my temple.

Everything else just fades away. I kind of forget that Baz is just across the room—a blessing and a curse, based on what he’s wearing—and just exist in this calm state of predictable action and empty thought.

After a while, I kind of come out of it and reach out to steady the bag before it bumps into me, taking deep breaths. I’m sweaty and my arms and fists are asking for a break. I look over to where I last saw Baz on the treadmill. He’s not there anymore, and I look around, wondering where he went.

With a start, I realize he’s just behind me, sitting on one of the benches surrounding the ring. His earbuds are out, and he’s got his water bottle next to him. His legs are crossed underneath him, and he’s just looking at me in the way Penny does sometimes when she’s trying to understand me. ( _I_ don’t even understand me.)

I turn around fully and walk over to him, unwrapping my hands as I go. I sit beside him, and he wordlessly hands me his water bottle. I smile gratefully at him, feeling more than a little nervous as I take a drink of water because he’s still looking at me. I don’t know how I didn’t notice he was watching me sooner. Baz’s eyes on me always feel very present.

“Where does your mind go when you’re like that, Simon?” he asks after a moment, catching me off guard.

I wipe some of the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and look over at him.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Baz readjusts his ponytail and moves to stretch his long legs out in front of him. He’s only so tall because of his legs.

“You kind of disappear from your senses when you get in the zone like that. It happens when you cook sometimes, but it happened right now too.” He glances at me sideways, tilting his head. “I called your name a few times, but you didn’t seem to notice me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I didn’t even hear him.

“It’s okay. What do you think about that’s so distracting, love?”

I can tell he really wants to know. He used my first name and called me love. And his voice is soft and quiet and genuinely wanting to know. I’m a sucker for him being soft, and he uses it to his advantage, because he’s a clever, plotting git.

I take another pull from his water bottle, trying to think of the words to explain…

“My head kind of just…” I make a vague gesture with my hand. “It goes quiet. I don’t think, and I don’t _have_ to think. It’s peaceful.”

Baz frowns, unsatisfied. “What do you not want to think about?”

“Lots of things, I guess. My problems, mostly. Henry’s problems. I don’t like thinking very much.”

He leans his shoulder into mine, and I lean back. His arm is cooler than mine. I’m always warmer than him. I can tell he wants me to keep talking, though he’s not verbally pushing for it. I let out a deep breath and look in front of us at the bag I was just hitting, which is still swinging ever so slightly.

“When I was a kid, I used to make lists of things I wouldn’t let myself think about. Things that I couldn’t have, things that hurt too much for me to think of. I didn’t want to make myself more miserable by thinking about miserable things. Everything was shitty enough as it was, and it was just easier to block things out.”

He’s looking at me, trying to look _into_ me, it feels like, and his eyes are grey and full of the want to understand. I almost wish I wasn’t so terrified of him knowing everything. After a second, the panic about what I’ve just said hits me.

“I guess that’s kind of like what happens now.” I say quickly. “Everything just kind of goes away.”

To my surprise, Baz’s arm comes up to wrap around my shoulders. His head rests against mine, and he hugs me tightly for a second. I must not have said anything too revealing.

“That’s similar to what happens to me when I play violin. Everything just becomes the music.”

I sigh in relief that he’s not asking any more questions. “That’s lovely.” I tell him. “Will you play for me sometime?”

He smiles. “If I can. It’s rather difficult to focus on anything other than you when you’re around, Simon.”

“I have a similar problem with you.” I smile back at him, poking his thigh.

Then, we’re kissing, and everything is okay for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm in quarantine for the next three weeks or so, so hopefully I'll be able to entertain you lovely readers with more chapters since my work is closed and I've got nothing to do but write.  
> As always, thanks to everyone who has left sweet comments and kudos on this fic! I really appreciate it, and the support makes me want to keep writing.  
> To anyone dealing with this COVID-19 pandemic, I wish you safety and health and I hope you're getting through this okay. If reading fanfiction makes you even a little bit happier, then I'm grateful to help you out.  
> More soon <3


	24. Baz Has Done the Math

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz knows Simon is censoring his past.

**Baz**

My new favorite pastime is seeing how much I can get Simon Snow Salisbury to blush. I love watching that bright red colour rise to his cheeks and spread all over his face.

It doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to get him all riled up and flustered, much to my delight. It’s easy to get that flush to travel up to his ears and down his neck, and I especially enjoy when he stumbles over his words in that blustery, growly Simon way.

He’s not very good with words. He doesn’t tend to talk much unless I draw it out of him or unless he’s excited. He jumbles his syllables and stutters his sentences and I think it’s a good thing he can shrug, because that’s basically his main way of communicating.

Simon is a man of few words and a lot of growling. He growls at me when I frustrate him with my teasing, when he can’t come up with a response to my taunts.

I absolutely adore Simon when he’s soft and sweet and gentle. His rough hands carefully wrapped around mine, his bashful smile. But I also really like him when he’s all ruffled and bothered and flashing blue eyes and pink mouth attacking mine, a growl rumbling up from his chest.

The main reason I love making him blush so much (aside from it being precious) is because eventually he gets fed up with my teasing and just lunges for my lips, aiming to shut me up in the best way.

He’s a phenomenal kisser, and whenever he starts, I never want him to stop, breathing be damned.

I’m so hungry for him it almost scares me. I want his attention, his touch, his everything all the time. It’s only gotten stronger lately, with no signs of slowing down or stopping. Going to the gym with him was the sweetest kind of torture.

Because I purposefully dressed up to tease him that day, to rile him up. (I don’t usually wear that kind of getup when I work out.) But Simon didn’t need to do anything to do the same to me. He was wearing loose gym shorts and a tee shirt and cheap trainers, and he took my fucking breath away. (Just like the first time I saw him.)

It was an effort not to lose focus and fall off the treadmill when I could see, just behind me, a sweating, heavy-breathing Simon, lifting weights and fucking _stretching_. Thick arms straining with exertion, shirt riding up his back and showing slivers of that tawny, mole-speckled skin.

And then I lost him for a bit. When he went to the punching bags. I didn’t feel him sneaking looks at me anymore, which was disappointing, and then I stopped running and turned to see him and he was still there, but he wasn’t.

I called his name, and he didn’t even seem to hear me. The look on his face was similar to when I saw him go off in the ring. The determination in the set of his jaw, the glazed-over eyes, the single-minded way he just kept hitting the bag over and over again. He wasn’t angry or anything, he had just retreated into some other place inside his head where I couldn’t reach him.

Simon hasn’t told me all of what Bunce once called his “tragic backstory.” I don’t want to push him. But there are things that keep…that keep coming to me. Like what happened to Simon and Henry after their mother died, but before Ebb adopted them? I’ve done the (simple) math, and there were years between these events. If Simon was eleven when his mum died, and sixteen when Ebb took him in, there’s five years of stuff I don’t know about in between. Five years Simon never talks about.

And I’m trying to understand, I am. He’s obviously been through some awful things, and I know that talking to someone about it can be hard. It just stings a bit.

Does he not think I’m sensitive enough to hear more about his past? Does he think I’ll be ashamed of him?

I’ve certainly dredged up things I never want to talk about with him. It feels unfair, and I hate feeling like I am, but I’m starting to feel more and more serious about Simon and the fact that he’s holding things about him back from me hurts.

But I don’t want to push him. I don’t know how he’ll react. I don’t want him to get so angry that he storms off. I don’t want him to feel like I’m trying to corner him, trying to pick apart the bad things that have happened to him.

Because those five years keep bothering me, and I know that whatever they hold can’t be good. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he have given me at least an inkling of what went on during that time? I’ve been trying to put the pieces together myself.

Simon and Henry had to have gone somewhere after their mother passed. Simon has never mentioned any other family. Grandparents or a father or anyone who would have taken them in. If no one stepped up to claim the two of them once they were orphaned, they probably went to an orphanage.

That’s probably what Simon is hesitant to tell me about. I can’t imagine his time in the system was terribly happy. He’d just lost his mother, had a new baby brother to worry about and got thrown into a children’s home with a bunch of other needy kids. It was probably a nightmare. I’ve never been to a care home or anything close to it, so I can’t really make a lot of assumptions, but it couldn’t have been great.

I was five when my mother died. It was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. The worst thing that’s ever happened to my father and Fiona as well.

We were alone, my mother and I. In her classroom at the boarding school she taught at, the very same school I’d attend years later, long after she was gone.

I can’t remember much about the day it happened. Just enough to give me nightmares even now, fifteen years later.

She was at her desk, grading the work of her students, and I was playing on the rug in front of it. Classes had just let out for the day, so she’d come and got me from the staff nursery on campus not an hour before the fire. I remember thinking that the little dungarees I was wearing were itchy and that I didn’t like them very much when we smelled the smoke and heard the screams.

My mother was up and out of her seat immediately, scooping me up from the rug. We were on the third floor of the very old building she taught in. I don’t think people realized just how old it was until it burned down so quickly like it did.

Smoke was coming in from under the door, making me cough. Mum pulled the collar of my shirt over my mouth and nose and told me to take a deep breath, and then she ran out into the hallway, where flames were just starting to lick up the walls, and then—

I think I passed out. I can’t remember anything beyond that hallway, where everything was so hot and I couldn’t breathe very well and my mother was holding me tightly, shielding me from embers falling from the ceiling.

I woke up in a hospital room with an oxygen mask over my face. Aunt Fiona was wiping soot from my arms with a wet rag, and Father was sitting beside the bed, holding one of my hands in both of his. He was crying, and Fiona was quieter than I’ve ever seen her be, and I didn’t have a mother anymore.

My mother saved my life that day. She managed to get me downstairs, where she handed me off to a firefighter already in the building. He carried me out safely, but my mother…

The building collapsed before she could get out.

I’ve told Simon all of this, and about the time after when my father was so lost in his own grief that Fiona had to step in and take care of me for a while, and about my own guilt and fear that still haunts me to this day.

Simon’s mother is dead too, but he didn’t have any family to take care of him afterwards, did he? He was all alone, painfully alone except for Henry. It’s no wonder he’s keeping those years after his mother died to himself. I should let it go. I should just accept that there are things he’s just not ready to tell me, but—I can’t.

When I don’t know something, it bothers the fuck out of me. And when it comes to Simon, well. Anything to do with him has always been irresistible.

He’s impossible to ignore. And these unknown things about him—about his past—are getting to be that way too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short chapter, and I apologize for that. I know what I want to happen next and I just needed a little placeholder here while I figure it out. So now you've got some good old Baz angst.  
> Thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos, ya'll are precious.  
> To anyone afraid and/or quarantined because of COVID-19 like I am, have hope and stay safe <3


	25. Tragic Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gets an unexpected and unwelcome visitor at work. Baz gets the full story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING, MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE/VIOLENCE  
> This one gets pretty rough and angsty y'all.

**Baz**

When I get to The Thrifty Tea Rose, Snow isn’t the one manning the register and taking orders like he usually is. It’s his manager instead, Miss Possibelf.

She’s a tall, broad woman with long silver hair and a low, thrumming voice. She always greets Simon with a warm smile and a strong pat on the shoulder, like she’s his football coach or something. As soon as I come within her sight, she smiles kind of wryly and shakes her head.

“Well, if it isn’t my best customer. Previously, it was Miss Penny, but you’ve knocked her out of the top spot, haven’t you?” She teases as I come up to the counter. “

I open my mouth, unsure of what to say, but thankfully she puts me out of my misery, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

Holding up her hand to indicate I should wait a moment; Miss Possibelf turns around to enter the back room of the shop. “Let me just go and get Simon for you. He’s in the back doing inventory.”

My face is burning, and I can hardly get out an embarrassed, “Thank you,” before she’s gone.

A minute later, Simon emerges from the back room, and the way the mere sight of him makes my day immediately better only makes me blush harder. Usually, my skin is dark enough to hide it, but this feels excessive.

“Hi Baz! How’s your day been? You wanna order something?” He chatters happily, leaning over the counter to peck me on the cheek. It’s baffling to me, the way he just exudes positive energy like he does. Sometimes Snow is like a nuclear generator of sunshine and happiness, and luckily today is one of those days where his smile is big and unabashed and bright.

I pretend to look up at the menu, though by now I know everything on it. The only thing that ever changes is the special daily tea.

“I’ll take an Earl Grey.” I say. “And my day has been fine. How are you, love?” I enjoy the way he blushes at the term of endearment while he prepares my drink.

“I’m all right. We got a new shipment of seed packets, so I’ve been cataloging those all day. I’ve barely been out here at all today.” He grins at me, scribbling my name onto a paper cup with a large rose sticker on it.

I lean my hip on the counter and watch him work. No one else is in the shop right now, so I don’t feel guilty about blocking the line, since it’s nonexistent.

“Well then I’m glad I stopped by. Apparently, I’m your best customer.”

Simon laughs, his back turned to me while he pours the tea. I love everything about the way he throws his head back as his shoulders shake. Simon isn’t the biggest man I’ve ever seen, but his broad shoulders truly are a thing to be admired.

“Miss Possibelf was saying something like that to me just now.” He turns around with my drink and sets it in front of me on the counter, then starts to ring me up. “I told her that surely you only come in for our pastry selection.” He’s smiling, both brows raised at me because he can’t do just one. He’s such a beautiful numpty.

“Oh, of course.” I flick my hair back over my shoulder and look down my nose at him as I pull out my wallet. “My patronage to this establishment has absolutely nothing to do with the inflammably handsome man behind the counter, only with the croissants.”

Simon laughs again, his ears going pink. He rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the counter.

“I don’t know about _inflammably handsome_ ,” He mumbles.

I press my card into his hand and look into his plain blue eyes as they dart up to meet mine bashfully. I’m trying not to smile, but my ability to suppress them is growing less and less effective around him. I decide to just give up on this one and give him my full grin, teeth and all. His eyes go wide, and his breath catches as I use my grip on his hand to tug him a little closer to me in spite of the counter in our way.

“I do.” I tell him quietly, even though we’re the only ones in the room. “You don’t get to look at yourself all the time, but I do. Simon Snow, you are exquisite. Without a doubt.”

His whole face is engulfed in red now, inching down his neck. He swallows showily and blinks up at me with those wide, boring blue eyes. His mouth is hanging open because it always is, and he really is exquisite, I wasn’t lying. I want to drag him over the counter by the front of his shirt and bracket my hips with his thighs and kiss every inch of his long neck while I tell him how wonderful and precious he is to me.

“ _Baz_ ,” He breathes, and I’d give everything that I am for him to always say my name like that. To keep looking at me the way he is.

Simon’s eyes get hooded and he’s leaning forward, and I think—well, at this point I definitively _know_ —that he’s going to kiss me when the shop door opens, ringing the bell and breaking the moment.

I let go of Simon immediately, disappointed. I would have really enjoyed a kiss. And it looked like it was going to be a really good one, the kind that I’d still be reeling from hours from now. (Simon is really good at that.) And even if he wasn’t going to kiss me, I like having him to myself, flirting with him while he’s not busy doing other things. That’s basically the whole reason his boss brought him out of the back room anyway. It’s more than embarrassing that the woman knows the situation so well.

I watch my boyfriend physically shake off the moment, blinking and seeming to come back to himself. He smiles apologetically at me, and swipes my card so he can move on and serve whoever just came in. I hear footsteps approaching from the front, making their way back here.

Simon hands me my card back and I thank him, stepping aside to put it back in my wallet. That’s when I hear another voice from behind me.

“Simon, my boy—” A man’s voice, low and laced with some thick emotion I can’t decipher. He’s from Wales, that much I can tell from his accent.

I look up and back and see him. It’s a man in his mid to late forties. Younger than my father, for sure, but older than Fiona. He has tidy brown hair with just a hint of grey peeking through at the sides, and one of those ridiculous thin moustaches above his upper lip. He’s of average height, wearing a long, dark green trench coat.

I’ve never seen him before, but he just said Simon’s name. Called him, “his boy.” I look to Simon, wondering if he knows who this random man is, and to my horror, I see my boyfriend’s face completely drained of colour. He’s paler than I’ve ever seen him—paler than I’ve ever seen anyone. The blush I’d caused him to have just a minute ago is nowhere to be seen.

His face has gone slack with shock—eyes wide, mouth agape. His hands have fallen limply to his sides, and for a second I wonder what the look in his eyes is. I’ve never seen it before, but at the sight of this man, Simon’s eyes are alight with unmitigated horror. It’s freezing him in place. He’s not moving at all.

He looks like the terrified ghost of himself, and I’m terrified in turn, frozen in place, watching the scene play out. Something is wrong.

The man steps forward, closer. Simon continues to be deathly still. I’m not even sure if he’s breathing. _Wrong_.

The man is smiling like someone just gave him a present, dark eyes alight with glee. “Simon.” He says again, all the way at the counter now. “They wouldn’t tell me where you were, it took me a while to find you. But here I am!” He extends his arms to illustrate the point, and Simon flinches so hard at the sudden movement that he almost falls backwards, into the coffeemaker behind him. My heart jumps into my throat and my stomach drops to the floor, but the man doesn’t seem to notice Simon’s extreme reaction, continuing to speak.

“It’s been such a long time. Look how you’ve grown! You’re a proper man now, son. And Henry, well, he’s almost ten now, right?” The man says. “We have so much to catch up on, so many things to talk about—”

“Get out.” Simon cuts him off, deathly quiet. He’s trembling. Visibly trembling. His hands are now clenched into fists at his side, his head is lowered but he’s glaring at this man with a kind of fury that is leagues beyond what flashes in those blue eyes when Simon goes off. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen, because I’ve seen what he can do when he’s much less furious than he is now.

“What was that, son?”

“GET! OUT!” Simon roars, and it’s so loud it feels like it rattles everything in the shop. I flinch at the outburst, but the man doesn’t react all but for his expression going flat and dull and unpleasant. A full 180 from the cheerful, friendly demeanor he had a second ago.

“Now Simon, that’s no way to greet your father after all this time—”

It’s a punch to the gut, that one word. It knocks the wind right out of me, but I don’t even have a moment to process—to figure out what it means—because Simon is yelling again. He’s still pale, but a bit of redness comes into his cheeks as he hollers at the top of his lungs.

“GET THE FUCK OUT AND NEVER COME BACK!”

The man’s—Simon’s _father_ —expression closes off even more, and he looks like a completely different person. Cold, furious, _mean_.

“How _dare_ you—” He starts to snarl, baring his teeth. But by now Simon’s loud outburst has caught the attention of his manager in the back room. Miss Possibelf emerges, confused.

“What’s going on here?” She demands as she comes out. She starts to deliver a stern look to Simon, but as soon as she sees the state of him, she stops. Simon’s flood of anger rushed out of him as soon as he heard her voice, and now he’s back to the pale, trembling ghost of himself he was when he first laid eyes on his father just now.

Miss Possibelf knows something I don’t. She sees Simon and then the other man and puts something together in an instant. All of the sudden, she’s stepping in front of Simon protectively, staring down at the man.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir.” Miss Possibelf says coolly, her eyes steely with conviction.

“But he’s my—” Simon’s father tries to argue heatedly.

“If you do not leave right now, I will call the police.” Miss Possibelf threatens, and there’s no cause for doubt in the way she has squared her shoulders or in the way she’s staring this man down like she could crush him under her heel.

“Fine!” He shouts, turning to leave. He stomps out of the shop, only pausing for a moment at the door to say one last thing. “You can’t avoid me forever, Simon!”

The door slams shut behind him, and I let out a breath I’d been holding for so long my lungs were starting to burn.

Immediately, both me and Miss Possibelf turn to assess Simon, who looks like everything inside of him just fell apart. He’s in a numb, terrified state of shock. He sways on his feet a little, and then slowly sinks to the ground.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Possibelf coos.

Simon’s on the ground, knees pulled to his chest and head buried in them, arms wrapped tightly around himself. He’s trembling even harder than before, and I realize that he’s crying.

In a flash, I’m around the counter, coming to kneel by his side.

“I’m sorry!” He sobs, sitting up a little though he still covers his face with his hands.

“I didn’t think—he shouldn’t—he, he found me, and—”

“Shhh.” Miss Possibelf crouches down as well and gently lays her hand on Simon’s shoulder.

“It’s not your fault. You don’t need to be sorry about anything. Let me call your foster mum, okay?”

Simon wordlessly sobs into his hands, nodding. Miss Possibelf stands back up and looks at me as if she’s evaluating me with some key criteria in her mind.

“Basil, right?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“Watch him for a moment.”

I nod, and she quickly brushes past to first go to the front door of the shop and flip the Open sign, so it reads Closed. Then she hurries into the back room, I assume to call Ebb. I turn my attention back to Simon. He’s shaking and crying, and it looks like every muscle in his body is tensed to the point of pain.

I have no idea what’s going on. I just know that Simon’s father just came in, and Simon was more scared than I’ve ever seen anyone be in my life. He’s never even mentioned his father before. I don’t really know what’s wrong, I don’t know how to _help_ him and he’s falling apart—

“Simon, love—" I reach out a hand, unsure if I should touch him right now. But, as soon as I speak, Simon is unfurling and practically throwing himself into my arms with a loud, heartbreaking sob. I’ve never seen him cry quite this hard before.

He wraps his arms around me and buries his face into my shoulder, shuddering with emotion.

“I didn’t—I n-never—Baz, I—” He can hardly speak through his crying, can hardly breathe.

I wrap my arms around him as well, matching the strong hold he has on me in full. I tug him closer, not caring about how my trousers must be getting dirty on this floor. I rub my hands over his back and let him cry into my shirt.

I clear my throat, make sure my voice is soft and soothing as it can be. “It’s all right, love. Just breathe for me, okay? Don’t worry about talking right now.” I tell him, stroking his back. One of my hands comes up to brush over his short, soft hair, still not quite grown out enough to hint at curls.

To my relief, Simon gives up on trying to speak and relaxes into me, letting me hold him. We sit like that for a few minutes. On the floor behind the counter of The Thrifty Tea Rose. Simon clinging to me as I hold him. He continues to cry, and every tear that soaks into my shirt and dampens my skin makes me ache because I don’t know what’s wrong, not really. I don’t have any idea what is going on in this situation, and if that weren’t bad enough, the man I’m falling in love with is falling apart in my arms and I don’t have an inkling about how to make it better, how to soothe him.

All I know is that Simon is crying intensely. Every time he sobs brokenly, I clench my jaw and hold him tighter. When he lets out these helpless, wordless cries I press my lips into his hair because what else can I do?

When Miss Possibelf comes back, Simon isn’t heaving with sobs anymore. His cries have faded into soft hiccups, but he’s still trembling ever so slightly against me. I look up at her questioningly, and she hands me her cell phone.

“Ebb wanted to talk to him.” She says before leaving again, giving us privacy.

I hear Ebb’s voice through the phone.

“Baz? Simon? Hello?”

Simon’s still trying to catch his breath, so I hold the phone to my ear. On a good day, Simon struggles with his words, and right now he is certainly in no state to speak.

“Hi, Ebb. It’s Baz.”

“Baz! Oh thank God. Are you with him?” She sounds worried.

I look down at the trembling Simon Snow in my lap. “Yes. What do I need to do?” My heart feels overfull, and not in a good way. It feels like it’s been weighed down with stones, and my head feels light and fuzzy with anxiety.

“Miss Possibelf is giving him the rest of the day off. I’m at work right now, and I can’t leave quite yet. Can you make sure he gets home safe for me? I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

I practically sigh in relief. Finally, something I can help with. “Yes, I can definitely do that.” I say.

“I’m going to call Henry’s school and make sure nothing has happened there. Maybe I can get Penelope or Agatha to walk him home. Can you watch over Simon for a bit? I don’t want him to be alone if possible.”

“Of course. I’ll take care of him.” I tell her determinedly. I have no idea what has just happened or why exactly my boyfriend is like this, but I’m going to fucking be here for him no matter what.

Ebb does sigh in relief. “Oh, thank you so much Baz. You’re such a kind young man, so good for my Simon.”

I sincerely hope that Simon didn’t hear that—I look down and startle a bit because he’s looking right up at me from where his head is resting against my shoulder. One corner of his mouth is tugged up in a little rueful grin, and I realize that we’re so close he most definitely heard Ebb and I’s conversation.

“It’s my pleasure.” I choke out, looking away from Simon’s bright blue, red-rimmed eyes. He huffs a weak laugh, and I squeeze his waist where my other hand is resting.

“Tell him I’ll be home to see him soon. Bye.”

“Bye.”

We hang up the phone. I look down at Simon. He’s still looking up at me, eyes refilling with tears anew. He can’t seem to stop crying.

“Don’t cry, love. I’m going to take you home now, okay?” I use my thumbs to swipe a few stray tears off his face. Even when he’s crying his eyes out, he’s still so lovely. I press a kiss to his flushed forehead.

“Okay.” He mumbles.

Simon lets me help him to his feet and follow him into the backroom where he hugs Miss Possibelf and apologizes again, which she insists isn’t necessary. He hangs his apron on a hook and puts on his hoodie, and I call an Uber, because I don’t think Simon wants to walk the several blocks to his flat. (And also, I don’t trust his father to not be lurking outside, wanting to catch Simon out of work.) (I check before we leave, poking my head out the door of the shop to look around, but I don’t see a green trench coat anywhere.)

In the Uber, Simon clings to my hand and stares silently out the window, and when we get to his flat, the first thing he does is stumble into his bedroom and collapse onto the bed. I hesitate in the doorway. I’ve never actually been inside Simon’s bedroom before. Whenever I’m here, we spend all our time in the common area.

It’s a small room, with a twin bed and a little closet and a small shelf storing worn cookbooks and comic books and plants. There are plants in every available space. Succulents of all shapes and sizes crowding the windowsill, a gigantic aloe plant underneath it. The shelf is also utilized to display Simon’s impressive plant collection. There are vines spilling over the spines of books. There’s a few pictures of Simon’s family and friends on the wall.

I see photos of Ebb and Henry, and Bunce and Agatha. And there’s a couple with one other person. A woman with curly blond hair and devastatingly familiar eyes. In one of them, sitting in her lap is a little boy. Simon. He can’t be more than five. All overgrown bronze curls and big blue eyes. He looks just like Henry, and the smile on his little face is just like his mother’s.

Simon’s room is small and cramped, but it smells like him and it feels so green and cozy. It’s not tidy like my room usually is. This room is definitely lived in. There are clothes littered on the floor, and a few empty tea mugs scattered about as well. His bedspread has little flowers on it, and he’s lying face down, smooshing his face into his pillow.

I cautiously walk in and sit on the end of his bed, unsure of what to do.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” Simon says into his pillow. “This isn’t—you don’t need to babysit me.”

I ignore him and begin to tug his ratty trainers off his feet, because it’s driving me crazy. “It’s not babysitting, Snow. I’m your boyfriend; I’m not going to abandon you when you’re like this.”

He turns over onto his back and sits up, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles.

“I’m fine, okay?”

“Don’t lie to me, love. Look, I’m not leaving. I’m going to stay with you. We don’t have to talk about anything, I just want to be here for you.”

He looks at me, and the set of his jaw implies that he wants to argue, but he must see the unyielding look on my face because he just huffs and looks away. I take off his other shoe and let it fall next to it’s twin on the floor where Simon seems to store the rest of his clothes.

He falls back onto the bed, lying face up now. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, and I see tears start sliding down his face again.

“I never—I never told you about him. My dad.” He says, finally addressing what’s been nagging on my mind for a while now.

“No.” I say softly. “You haven’t.”

He swallows and closes his eyes. “That was on purpose.” His chest starts to rise and fall rapidly again as he gets worked up, and I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to do, because his face is crumpling in agony. I just sit here while is sounds like every word Simon gets out is being torn right out of his heart.

“A-after—after Mum died…there was no one. She didn’t have any family or anyone to take us in. And I was so scared.” His face is scrunched up, and his body is beginning to curl in on itself. He curls up onto his side in a tight ball and sobs.

“And then Davy showed up suddenly. I met him a few times when I was little, but he wasn’t—Mum and him weren’t married or anything. He wasn’t ever around.” Simon throws his arm over his eyes and his lips twist into a grim smile. “It was just me and Mum, and then it was just me and Henry. When Davy came after she was gone, I—” He sobs again, and the sound rips through me. His voice is scratchy and broken from crying so much, and I almost want to tell him to stop talking, to just relax, because things are starting to make sense and I’m so heartbroken for him, so scared of this story.

But he’s talking now. Coherently, every word dripping with emotion.

“I was so _relieved_ , when he took us in. When he said he’d take care of us? I believed him.”

“Simon, love—” I choke out, wanting to pause his pain, wanting to stop it. I can’t stand the sight of his trembling chin, of his body curled around itself, every muscle tensed in misery.

“No.” He says solemnly. He sits up and looks me in the eye, glaring almost. “I have to tell you. You have to know, Baz. You deserve to know. I’m a mess, and not good enough for you, and I’ve been keeping this to myself because I know you’re going to want to leave when I tell you, and I’m so sorry.”

“Simon—” I try to say, and he shakes his head so fast his face blurs, and he holds up a shaking hand.

“No, just—just let me get it out, okay? Then you can go, I won’t try and stop you.”

I want to argue, I want to tell him he’s an idiot for thinking I’d ever leave him, but he’s determined, so I just let him go. Just sit back and watch the devastation play across his beautiful face. My eyes are starting to sting, and I think I’m going to start crying too.

“Davy took us in.” Simon looks down at his hands in his lap and is silent for a moment, and I can’t even imagine what’s going through his head.

Then he says, “And it wasn’t long before he started beating the shit out of me anytime he got angry or drunk.” I suck in a horrified breath, but he continues.

“He was always one or the other, when he wasn’t pretending Henry and me didn’t exist. He’d disappear for days at a time—God knows where—and when he’d come back, he would—Christ, Baz.” Simon runs a hand over his red, tear-stained face, his eyes squeezed shut again.

He uses his other hand to lift the hem of his shirt upwards, showing me a faded scar on his side. It’s old, but still very much there. Jagged, five or six inches long. I stare at it, heart beating so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

“He threw a glass at me once. It missed, but this big shard got me. He broke my arm too, when I was twelve. And I can’t even count how many times he gave me a black eye or kicked me in the stomach when I was down. I told the people at school I got into fights a lot to explain the injuries. Which wasn’t wrong all the time.” He says, looking down and to the side. He lets his shirt fall.

“He never wanted to take care of me or Henry, so it was always up to me. We lived with him for about three years, before they took us away and put him in prison. And then we got put into care. I still got beat up, but I could hit back, and we were hungry sometimes, but it was better than…better than Davy.”

Simon looks up at me guiltily. “He was released a few weeks ago, from prison. And I guess he wants to talk. So seeing him today…having to look at his face, and hear him say Henry’s name, hear his _voice._ ” Simon shuts his eyes and exhales shakily. “I lost it. Sorry.”

It takes me a moment to come up with a proper response. There’s so much to process. Simon. Oh, Simon. I’ve never punched anyone in my life before, and I suddenly regret not clobbering that bastard— _Davy_ —when I saw him today. It’s no fucking wonder Simon reacted the way he did when his father showed up, after the hell that man put him and his brother through. It’s no wonder Simon hasn’t told me up until now.

I suddenly understand why he got so upset when Fiona prodded him about his parentage, and why he’s been so stingy with details about his life before Ebb.

Simon is looking at me like he’s bracing himself for the worst, shoulders hunched up by his ears.

“So you can—you can leave now. If it’s too much, I get it, I’m not—" Unbelievable.

I turn and sit cross-legged on the bed so I can look him in the face. I grab him firmly by the shoulders and resist the urge to shake him a little.

“Simon, I meant what I said. I’m not going to leave you. And certainly not because of something you went through when you were a kid that you couldn’t control.”

“But—Baz, I’m a mess! I’m not good enough for you! I’m so messed up, and you’re way too good to be stuck with someone like me.” He lowers his head again and shrugs my hands off his shoulders. I let him, only so I can grab both of his hands in mine.

“Simon.” He doesn’t look at me. “ _Simon_ ,” I say again, and I use our linked hands to nudge his chin up so I can see his face. He looks so defeated, like he’s already accepted that I’m going to leave him. Like I’d ever be so stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whomp, there it is. Been ready to get here for a while, sorry about all the angst. I promise it's going to get better.  
> As always, thanks to everyone who leaves comments and kudos on this fic, I really appreciate it. <3


	26. Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz proves his devotion to Simon. Kissing ensues. Then there's some angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE  
> WARNING #2: SOME NON-EXPLICIT ADULT CONTENT  
> WARNING #3: Simon has a pretty serious panic attack at the end of the chapter.  
> Y'all this chapter is a lot, read at your own risk.

**Simon**

“Look, you don’t have to draw this out, you can just go, okay?” I can’t look at him. He’s trying to be nice, because he feels bad for me, I can see it on his face. I try to tug my hands out of his, but he won’t let me, and I just wish he would go and let me cry in peace.

I had to look the man who stars in all my nightmares right in the face today, and Baz watched me fall apart. And he’s been so sweet, really. He let me cry into his nice shirt and took me home. But this is so much. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. With my shitty baggage. It’s too much.

I’ve been soaking in his presence, enjoying the comfort he brings while I still can. But now that it’s all out there…

He should just go; I know he wants to. But Baz is a decent person, so he’s just here to watch over me until Ebb gets home like he promised her.

“Baz, just—”

“ _No_.” He snarls. I look up, startled at his harsh tone. He’s been speaking to me so softly because he feels bad, but now he’s glaring at me, baring his teeth. It stops me in my tracks. He looks ferocious, like he could pounce and tear me to ribbons at any moment.

“Shut up, Snow, and let me talk.” He snaps.

I shut up, shocked silent.

“I’m not fucking leaving you, you imbecile. I’ve been trying to tell you for the past ten minutes, and you refuse to let it pass through your thick skull. I’m not going to just drop you because your dad was terrible and abusive.” He’s looking me dead in the eye, daring me to interrupt. I must look completely cowed by his ferocity, because he softens for a second, voice going all sweet and knee-meltingly fond. “I really like you, Simon. This doesn’t change anything for me, because why the fuck would it? You’re the best person I’ve ever met. As long as you still want me, I’m here.”

I blink, and then blink again. Because I never let myself dare to hope that he would stay with me after my messy baggage finally came to light. I never let the thought pass my mind, because it would have been all the much worse if I let myself think we’d be okay, and he ended up leaving anyway. But instead of the crushing sadness and loss and heartbreak I thought I’d be feeling, instead I have…this. I have him. Still. Despite everything I thought, Baz is still here, sitting on my tiny twin bed across from me, holding my hands and telling me that he really likes me and wants to still be my boyfriend.

And him being my boyfriend means something different now, because he knows how messed up I am. He knows what I’ve been through, and he’s _still here_. He’s still mine somehow.

“You mean that? You’re not going to dump me?” I still have to make sure. Still have to give him an out, just in case.

Baz just barely refrains from rolling his eyes, but he must understand that I need to hear his confirmation again. “Yes, Simon. I mean it. And I’d have to be thicker than you to do something so stupid as dump you.”

“That…doesn’t really make any sense.” I’m grinning like a maniac even though he did just insult me. (That’s kind of how it is with Baz. I take his insults with a grain of salt.)

I squeeze his hands that are still wrapped around mine, feel his bony fingers press into my palm. I can’t stop smiling at him, and he can’t seem to take it. He looks away, pretending to be grumpy, though his lips are twitching.

He’s so fucking fit. I choose to just focus on that right now, staring at his profile. His “aristocratic brow” (his words, not mine), his long, slightly-crooked-at-the-top nose, his plush and naturally pouty lips and sharp and defined chin and cheekbones. His hair is up in a low ponytail today, a few black strands falling around his face. His grey eyes contrast so beautifully with the rich red gold colour of his skin. I don’t want to think about what happened today, or anything else except how incredibly fit my boyfriend is. I just want to look at him for the rest of the day. But then I remember that I can _touch_ him.

I let go of his hands and slip off the bed, just so I can come to the side of where he’s sitting and take his lovely face in my hands.

“Simon?” He asks, and I only let him get the word out because I like it when he says my name. I kiss him, because kissing Baz has this amazing power to eradicate everything else in my head. And right now, I just want to think about him. His soft lips on mine, the pleased sigh that he’s exhaling as I kiss him.

I only take my hands away from his face so I can shrug my hoodie off, and then I move them to his shoulders. He lets me slip his coat off, and then turn and push him backwards to lie down on the bed with his head on my pillow. Then I’m clambering over him, my knees planted on either side of his hips, my arms caging his head in.

He looks up at me, pupils wide and dark and cheeks flushed. I look down at him for a moment, enjoying the wanting expression on his face and how heavily he’s breathing after just one kiss. Baz gets so breathless and pliant when I jump him unexpectedly like this. Whenever we snog, it’s easy to overwhelm him, but he never pulls away. He just melts and kisses me back, letting out these pretty little noises that he tries to hide, but I coax them out of his mouth and into mine.

And he looks absolutely perfect here on my bed, his pretty head on my pillow, long legs nearly falling off the end.

“ _Simon_ —” He gasps as I skim my hands up his sides, slipping them under his waist so he arches up into me. My hands continue their exploration, crawling up his spine and then tugging at the band holding his hair back. I run my fingers through his hair and even in his flustered state, Baz still manages to shoot me a wholly unimpressed look.

“Really, Snow?” He holds out his hand for the band. I sheepishly drop it into his palm, and he secures it around his wrist, rolling his eyes. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to properly put my hair up? I had it perfect, and now—”

I shut him up with my mouth, my tongue twisting with his. I continue to comb my fingers through his hair, tugging it a little to hear him groan.

I move lower down his body so I can kiss his neck and nip his jaw. Baz throws his head back, and I feel him writhe underneath me as I suck on this spot on his neck just under his ear. I wonder if I’ll leave a mark. His pretty flowery blouse is already unbuttoned. I already have access to his sharp collarbones. (I feel like he purposefully unbuttons his shirts when he visits me at work, just to distract me. It’s almost October; surely, he doesn’t walk around with his shirt halfway unbuttoned all the time. He’d be freezing all the time.)

Baz’s chest is smooth, and he smells so strongly of himself here. His cologne— _“It’s cedar and bergamot, Snow_ ”—and his posh laundry detergent. Baz isn’t insanely ripped, but he’s so lean and fit and well-muscled from football (and I’m sure genetics have given him an advantage).

I press kisses to the center of his chest, where I can hear his rapid heartbeat. I move further down, so my chin is just above his stomach. My fingers pause on the shiny, smooth buttons of his shirt that are still done up, and I look up at Baz questioningly. He’s looking at me, slightly propped up on his elbows.

He’s nodding before I even ask the question. “Can I—? Is this okay?” I ask anyway. Baz nods again and falls back onto his back with a groan.

“You don’t need to ask. Fuck, Simon.” He says quietly. I can tell he’s embarrassed to be so worked up over this, but he shouldn’t be. I’m worked up too, eager and nervous and so hungry for him. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want him, and it’s scary. But I’m not listening to the cowardly part of my brain right now.

From how I’m lying on him, I can feel his excitement pressed against my stomach under his jeans. Which throws me for a moment, because I’ve never thought I’d like feeling another bloke’s erection against me. I decide not to dissect my sexuality right now and distract myself with unbuttoning the rest of Baz’s fancy shirt. I kiss and lick and scrape my teeth against all the new skin I’ve revealed, and it’s startling and incredibly thrilling when I feel his erection grow through our layers of clothing. I find myself in an almost painfully similar state to him, but I’m not paying attention to that either.

Baz’s chest and stomach are flawless and smooth except for the sparse, neatly trimmed dark hair that leads from his bellybutton down under the waist of his trousers. I don’t think I’m quite ready to discover where that trail leads. Today, I’m just happy to have him like this.

His trousers are sitting impossibly low on his hips, showing off his sharp hipbones. Everything about Baz is deceptively sharp. He’s all smooth surfaces and severe angles, but as my hands feel his hips and my mouth kisses every single one of his ribs, he practically sinks into my mattress, sighing beautifully. And he’s soft (well, most of him is), just for me. His muscles lose their tension, and his hair fans out in gentle waves around his head, and his eyes flutter closed. His blunt, well-manicured nails (Baz has told me he regularly goes to a nail salon and invited me to come with him sometime) scratch pleasantly through my short hair, massaging my scalp, and it’s so nice. And then I nip at him or suck on a spot particularly vigorously, and he’s arching up to meet me, fists clenching my comforter or tightly gripping the back of my neck.

“Simon, love, you’re going to kill me.” Baz says breathlessly. It’s not unlike him to be overdramatic, but I stop anyway, just in case.

“What? Sorry.” I try to catch my breath. I suppose I just got lost in touching him and tasting him and feeling him that I forgot to breathe properly. I feel a little lightheaded, but that just might be because of my proximity him.

He glares at me, huffy and disheveled. I love making him both of those things. I’m smiling uncontrollably wide at him, and I can tell it’s riling him up further.

“I didn’t say you should stop.” He complains, and I laugh. He rolls his eyes. “Get up here and kiss me, you nightmare.”

I’m not adverse to that. I shift upwards and begin to wriggle up so I can reach his mouth, but I get…distracted.

I can’t believe I’ve been practically burying my face in Baz’s chest and stomach for the past five minutes and I haven’t even payed attention to his nipples. They’re a dark pink, small and unfairly perfect, just like the rest of him. Before I think about it and before he can stop me, I’m dipping my head back down to swirl my tongue around the right one, and Baz bucks underneath me, a wail choking off in his throat. His hands are back in my hair again, though unfortunately there’s not much to tug properly.

I tease his nipple with my tongue, giving it little sucks and gentle bites. When Baz is practically whimpering my name, I move on to the other one and give it the same treatment. When I’m satisfied that I’ve just completely destroyed his train of thought, I move back up to kiss him on the mouth. But instead of the pliant, gasping Baz that I’ve grown used to, I’m met with his teeth trapping my bottom lip and a deep growl that rumbles up through his chest, so powerful I can feel it where I’m laying on top of him.

Before I can ask him what I’ve done wrong, his hands are tightly gripping my waist and my whole world spins upside down as he executes a feat of strength that I never would have expected from him. Baz rapidly flips me over onto my back, switching our positions. He hovers above me now, and my breath catches in my throat as I look up into his hooded eyes.

Baz is taller than me, but I’m definitely heavier than him. I’ve just got more meat on my bones than he does, the twiggy bastard. The fact that he was able to manhandle me like that was impressive…and hot. So very hot. I’m looking up at him in obvious shock, mouth hanging open as a new, unexpected wave of want rushes through me. It’s a different kind of want than before. I feel kind of intimidated, but in a good way that makes me squirm and gulp underneath him.

He smirks, and his eyes are completely swallowed up by his pupils right now. They remind me of the phases of the moon, his eyes. The phase where the silver moon gets completely shadowed. The look in his eyes makes me shudder—again, in a good way.

The curve of his lips and the glint of his teeth as he smirks at me is hypnotizing, and his hair is falling down around his face, creating a curtain of black around us, casting parts of his face in shadow. His shirt is still on but hanging open. My eyes dart down and take in his bare chest again before crawling back up the long line of his neck, and then back to his face, before once again being taken captive by his bewitching eyes.

He kisses me, and it’s so good my toes curl and I don’t even want to come up for air. I’d gladly let Baz suffocate me if he keeps kissing me like _that_. When he pulls back, I try to follow him, but he’s too fast, and won’t let me. I’d be more upset if he weren’t still looking at me like he is. Like I’m something he wants to fucking devour.

“Simon, love.” Baz says, and it’s practically a purr, sending a buzz of pleasure right through me. I blink up at him dumbly, and his smirk returns, wider than the last and something that sends delicious shivers down my spine. He raises one eyebrow and I feel the hand not propping him up above me tug on the hem of the plain black shirt I wear to work.

“May I take this off of you? I’d like to return the tantalizing actions you’ve so eagerly bestowed upon me.”

I’m feeling dizzy. Baz wants my shirt off? O-fucking-kay, no problem there. It’s just, he’s using big words, and he just kissed me so good my head is spinning, and his voice is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Low and smooth and…what was that word he used? Tantalizing. Yeah. That. Baz might as well be the definition of that word.

I realize I’ve just been blankly staring at his lips when he laughs a little and presses a chaste kiss on the side of my mouth.

“Simon? You still with me?” He asks. I blink again and nod, trying to get myself together. Christ, Baz takes the lead one time and I’m a pile of mush. Unbelievable.

“Here, let me—”

Baz lets me sit up, sitting comfortably on my thighs. I can’t help but wrap my hands around his waist when I sit up. I kiss him, but before I can do more than press my lips to his for a moment, he’s slipping his slightly cold hands up under my shirt, splaying his long fingers out over my ribs. His hands are colder than my skin, but they feel like fire licking up my torso.

“Can I take this off please?” He asks, and I can only nod. I obediently lift my arms for him to pull my shirt off over my head. He tosses it away like its personally offended him, and then he looks back at me.

And I’m suddenly, horrifyingly self-conscious. Baz’s skin is perfect. His body is perfect. And I’m covered in scars and moles and freckles, and with the way I’m sitting my stomach is doing that thing that makes me look fat, and I have a thin layer of unruly dark gold curls on my chest and stomach, and I’m regretting letting him take my shirt off. I want to push him off me and retrieve my shirt to cover myself.

Baz is just looking at me, his eyes taking in all my obvious imperfections. I can’t read his expression. He thinks I’m disgusting. He’s probably regretting all the things he said earlier. I want to run; I want to hide—

Baz’s hands on my chest startle me out of my panic spiral, and I gasp. He sweeps his fingers down, feeling the sparse hair there and on my stomach. His eyes follow where his hands go, drinking in every inch of me. His hands—they’re trembling, just the slightest bit as he touches me. I hold my breath, waiting for his disgust to show itself. I try not to flinch away when he speaks.

His voice is so quiet I can’t hear it.

“What was that?” I’m terrified.

He looks up at me now and licks his lips in such a way that makes me blush, because the man is sitting on my lap.

“I said, ‘you’re beautiful, Simon.’” His voice is breathy and awed, like he’s just seen a beautiful sunrise or something for the first time, and I’m still not sure I heard him right.

“I’m—what?”

Baz shakes his head at me fondly, his lips curving into a real smile. He places one palm on the center of my chest and gently pushes me onto my back so he can lean over me again. His long hair tickles my cheek when he leans in to put his lips by my ear.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Simon.” His voice is right there, crystal clear and amused. It makes me realize that this whole time I haven’t said anything about him. Baz Pitch just called _me_ beautiful. Baz. The prettiest, fittest bloke I’ve ever met, _who is laying on top of me while I’m shirtless and whispering nice things in my ear—_

“Shit, Baz, _you’re_ beautiful. I didn’t—I should’ve—you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, so fucking gorgeous—” His lips brush over the shell of my ear in the most delightful way, and I cut off with a gasp at the sensation. From the way his lips feel against my skin, I can tell that the bastard is still smiling.

He kisses me behind my ear, the underside of my jaw, in random places all over my neck and face. He seems to know exactly where he’s going as he moves from place to place. I try to think of my own reflection, and that’s when I realize that Baz is kissing my moles, connecting the dots on my skin.

“ _Baz_ —” His name comes out of my mouth, along with an embarrassing moan. He presses his wide smile into my neck, and I curl my fingers in his hair, squeezing my eyes shut.

Then he’s sliding downward, peppering kisses on my shoulders and collarbone. He sucks particularly hard on this one spot where my neck and shoulder meet, then laves over it with his tongue. This is the best kind of torture, and it’s an effort not to buck my hips up into him. Baz’s long, elegant hands knead the base of my neck and travel along my arms and shoulders, fingertips feeling out my muscles. My hands come up and push his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, because I want—I _need_ —to feel him too.

Baz lets out a lovely pleased sigh against my chest when I run my hands over his shoulder blades and into the dip of his back. His cold hands slip under my waist, and I feel his thumbs rub over my hips. His hands have gotten warmer from touching me, I think, and it makes me a strange kind of happy.

For a few moments, I just let myself relax into my bed and close my eyes to _feel_. Baz’s lips are impossibly soft, and it’s so good. Occasionally, I feel his tongue or his teeth on my skin, or the subtle scratch of his stubble. And his hair brushing along my skin as he moves feels as soft as bird feathers. When he breathes against a sensitive spot, goosebumps rise on my arms and he chuckles at the way I involuntarily shiver.

My eyes jerk open and I let out a surprised yelp when Baz’s mouth latches onto my nipple.

“Baz!” I almost shout, because despite the fact that I just did the same thing to him and he went wild, I wasn’t expecting the wet heat of his mouth to feel _this_ good. My hands fist in his hair and I whine wordlessly through clenched teeth. It feels like he stays there forever, just fucking torturing me with his evil, wonderful mouth. When he finally stops, I can hardly get a breath of relief to my lungs before he goes to the other one, smirking at me.

“You…You fuck—you fucking tease,” I groan, throwing my arm over my eyes to block out the image. It’s too much. He’s too gorgeous, too good at this. I’m writhing under him much in the same manner he was under me just a few minutes ago.

Baz lets up and props himself above me, so we’re face to face, removing my arm from my eyes. He holds my hand and lifts it to his mouth to brush a kiss to my knuckles. He looks into my eyes and the bastard fucking winks.

“It takes one to know one, love.”

I growl and grab him by the back of his neck, yanking him down to kiss me, determined to ruin his sudden assertive streak. (Not because I don’t like it. I’m just doing it out of spite, really.)

It’s so good. Kissing Baz is always good. He’s more satisfying than scones. But with scones, eventually I can eat enough to the point that I’m full. With Baz, I’m like a bottomless pit. I can never seem to get enough of him. I’ll never be satisfied with just one kiss. I have this limitless desire for him it seems.

Our lips part for a moment, and his forehead rests against mine. We breathe the same air. I brush some of his hair behind an ear and then cup his jaw in my palm. He smiles wordlessly and closes his eyes, and I do too, leaning upwards to kiss him again—

“Simon! Ebb called me and told me what happened, I’m so sorry—” My best friend barges into my bedroom, swinging the door wide open. Baz and I’s eyes open in panic at the same time.

“FUCK—” I’m not sure which one of us says it.

He jerks back from me and I sit up so quickly that he tumbles off my little bed. He and his long legs land in a pile on the floor, and Penny is screaming and covering her eyes with her hands like she just caught us shagging. (We weren’t, but fuck.)

“Jesus Christ, you couldn’t have locked the door?!” She wails, doubling over.

Baz groans in pain and glares at Penny. Both of our faces are deeply flushed. Baz’s hair is a mess, I’m shirtless and Baz might as well be. Penny is still covering her eyes with her hands, shaking her head rapidly.

“What the fuck, guys?” She cries in anguish.

“Oh calm down, Bunce. You didn’t see anything overtly sexual.” Baz sneers, sitting up and quickly buttoning his shirt.

Penny reluctantly removes her hands from her eyes to put them on her hips, and she glares down at Baz in disdain. “Yes, obviously, but Simon is like my _brother_ , Basilton. I never want to see him snogging anyone.” She looks over at me and groans, slapping a hand on her forehead.

“Come on, I don’t need to see my best friend with a hickey! You guys could have given me some warning.”

I look down and see that there is indeed a rather impressive hickey on my upper chest, right above my heart. My face gets redder, if possible. I wish I could hide under my fucking bed.

“Please tell me how that would work, Bunce. You didn’t even knock.” Baz is in a proper strop. He gets to his feet and tries to smooth his hair down in vain. I think I see a hickey on his neck as well. It’s less noticeable than mine, but his can’t be hidden by a shirt.

“I never knock! But I guess I’ll start now, so I don’t walk in on you two having a quick afternoon shag.” Penny crosses her arms over her chest and stares challengingly at Baz, but I see her lips twitch and her dimples trying to appear, and I know she’s just taking the piss now.

“We weren’t—” I try to say, but Baz barrels past me.

He rolls his eyes masterfully and moves past Penny to the door. He’s still obviously embarrassed, but he’s also trying not to laugh. “Shut up, Bunce. Let me go get my hair back in order.”

I get off my bed and scoop my hoodie off the floor, because my shirt is somewhere else, and I need something to cover myself.

While he’s going down the hall, I assume to the bathroom, Penny calls after him. “Yeah, sure. Simon did a real number on it.”

“Fuck off!” Baz yells back from farther away.

Penny rolls her eyes and finally allows herself to smile and turns back to me. Her eyes go from amused to concerned in less than a second, and she’s suddenly in front of me, wrapping me in a hug. She’s just barely tall enough to hook her chin over my shoulder if she stands on the tips of her toes. Which she is.

“Oh God, Simon. I’m so sorry.” She says quietly, squeezing me tightly. “I came as soon as I could. Are you okay?”

Everything that happened earlier breaks out of the locked room in my head I stuffed it into when I started snogging Baz, and it hits me like a sucker punch to the throat. And it truly hits me, now.

Davy knows I live here in London. He knows where I work. _He came and saw me._

And I’m not a person who is big on hugs, but I’m starting to shake, because I heard his voice for the first time in years. I looked into his fucking eyes and saw him fucking _smile_ at me. I sink into Penny’s embrace as a new batch of tears start to form in my eyes.

“He—he was there. He found where I was, Pen.” I sob into her frizzy, wavy hair. What happened today is what I’ve been terrified of ever since I first found out Davy was back. The only upside is that Henry wasn’t there.

Oh, fuck. No. No, no, no. _Henry_.

I gasp and rip away from Penny to look at the alarm clock on my bedside table. Henry’s school lets out in less than ten minutes. I have to be there. What if Davy is already there? What if he’s found Henry’s school and is waiting for him to get out? What if he’s already somehow gotten to Henry? I can’t—I can’t let anything happen to Henry—

“Shit, Pen, I have to go get Henry, I have to protect him, what if Davy’s there—” I’m crying and panicking, trying to see through my tears well enough to see where my shoes are. I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. My vision is narrowing down to my shaky hands trying to put on my shoes. If Davy found my place of work, who’s to say he hasn’t found Henry’s school? Shit. Fuck. Fucking hell, I’ve got to go—

I’m babbling nonsense about Henry and running to his school, and I’m sobbing so hard I don’t think I’m getting enough air to my lungs, and, oh God, if Henry sees Davy, if Davy talks to him, if Davy _hurts_ him—

“Simon! Simon, stop! It’s okay, calm down—” Penny is saying, gripping me tightly by the shoulders. I feel like I did the night I almost beat up Dev, and it’s awful. I think I’m hyperventilating.

“Penny, I can’t let him get to Henry!” I sob, trying to get past her to the door. Suddenly Baz is in front of me, gathering me into his arms.

“Simon, love, it’s okay, calm down.” He won’t let me past him, and I feel like I’m dying, like I’m coming apart at the seams. I just sink to my knees, because everything is narrowing down to my frantic breaths, and the world I can barely blurrily perceive is spinning. Baz follows, not relinquishing his hold on me.

From behind me, Penny rests her hand on my shoulder. Her voice is solid and calm. “Simon, please. I need you to breathe, okay? Deep breaths. Listen to me. Agatha is picking Henry up from school. She has pepper spray and Ebb has already alerted Henry’s school about the situation. He’s safe, Simon. I promise. Henry’s okay.”

Her words clear some of the dark fog that was clouding my vision. “Agatha’s with him?” I ask hoarsely. Baz is rubbing his hand up and down my back.

“They’re in a cab, on the way here as we speak. It’s okay, Simon.” Penny assures me.

I sigh in relief and sink into Baz’s hold. He takes my weight like a champ and slowly sits down on my bedroom floor, arms wrapped firmly around me. Penny pats my shoulder comfortingly and I hear her go to the door—I’ve closed my eyes.

“I’ll put on some tea.” She says.

Baz continues to hold me and rub my back, resting his cheek on top of my head.

I’m trembling, still. My breathing’s getting back to normal, and my heart rate is slowing. I think I just had a panic attack. That’s something Dev and Niall called it.

Is this what life is going to be like now that Davy is out again? I feel like that scared kid, terrified of pissing him off or being too close to him in that house. Am I going to live in constant fear now that I’ve seen him?

I realize that my breathing has gotten erratic again when Baz shushes me gently. He kisses the crown of my head and whispers, “It’s all right, love. You’re okay. Henry’s okay. We’re not going to let anything happen to you, understand? I’ll be your personal bodyguard, you don’t need to worry, darling.”

The idea of Baz as my bodyguard is funny enough to break me out of my remounting panic. I huff a weak laugh and look up at him.

“You? A bodyguard? I don’t know anybody who’d be intimidated by you and your twiggy legs and your floral shirts.”

Baz’s mouth drops open and he puts a hand over his heart in mock outrage. “Excuse me? My legs are not _twiggy_. They could be categorized as weapons of mass destruction, I’ll have you know. And my shirts are designer.”

I laugh wetly and Baz tenderly wipes the tears off my cheeks with his fingers. He’s smiling in the softest way.

“Come on, love. You should drink something.” He says, letting go of me to rise to his feet. He helps me to mine and doesn’t let go of my hand even when I’m standing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst, you're welcome for the kissing stuff. I always feel awkward writing content like that but yeah.  
> Thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos here, I really appreciate it. Hope ya'll are doing good.


	27. Plans with Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gets an invitation, the boys' families are going to collide, Niall's got some problems and Simon is there to help.

**Simon**

It’s beyond infuriating, being treated like I’m made of glass.

It’s been a week since Davy made his shitty reappearance back into my life, and everyone has been walking around me like the floor is covered in fucking eggshells.

I almost didn’t want to tell Henry about what happened. I didn’t want to scare him, make his nightmares worse. It’s bad enough knowing Davy is out of prison, free to roam about as he pleases. But Henry knowing that Davy found me, that he knows we live in the area—well, suffice to say I haven’t been sleeping well. And Henry has enough nightmares already.

But keeping secrets from Henry is useless. And everyone was too spooked, and I was an obvious mess. I can’t lie for shit. He would have seen right through me in an instant if I tried to hide what happened. Ebb called his school so he could leave early, and Agatha picked him up in a cab and brought him straight home. Agatha didn’t know how to tell him, so she just told him it was an emergency.

Henry got home and saw me huddled on the sofa with Baz and Penny, tear tracks down my face, still not quite breathing right from my panic attack. He came right up to me and held my face in his small hands, looking into my eyes. Henry’s hands are unscarred and soft and more freckled than mine.

“Simon, what’s wrong.” He reminded me of Mum, right then. When I was little, and struggled getting my words out, and I’d be huffy and on the verge of tears. Back then, Mum would take my face in her hands and tell me to breathe, to calm down and untangle my tongue before I speak.

I started crying again—I cried so fucking much that day— and wrapped him in a tight embrace.

“Let’s—let’s go and talk in your room real quick, okay?” I let him go and tried to wipe my tears away, but they just kept coming, and Henry was starting to worry more. I led him into his room and shut the door. I knew that Pen and Baz and Agatha wouldn’t eavesdrop or anything, I just wanted some privacy.

And I told Henry that our dad found me at work and watched my little brother’s face go white with terror.

He’s clung to me for days. I think out of terror for himself and for me. Luckily, Davy hasn’t shown up since last week. I’ve been jumpy as hell at work, always wanting to hide whenever someone walks through the door. Miss Possibelf has been watching over me like a mother hen, and don’t even get me started on Ebb and Penny. Ebb’s been extra weepy, clutching me tightly whenever we get close. Penny has practically moved into our flat. She’s always making me tea and asking me how I am, and I want to tell her that I want to crawl out of my skin.

Even Agatha’s been hovering around like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe I am. I haven’t left my flat except to go to work, and that’s only because I refuse to let him take that place from me.

Baz has stuck around, which is still something I can hardly believe. He, at least, is treating me like I’m less fragile than the others are. He still visits me at work, we still go over to each other’s flats and hang out. But he’s still so frustratingly…careful. There hasn’t been any more of his searing, brutal snogging. It was a surprise, when he went at me like that. But I liked it. A lot. Not that I don’t enjoy it when he gently touches my hand or kisses me on the forehead, but I just want him to be…I don’t know. Normal. I want to go back to when he didn’t know I was damaged. I want him to touch me like I’m not going to break. I want him to stop looking at me like he feels bad for me.

I feel less guilty now that everything’s out in the open, but I also feel so miserably vulnerable. Baz knows everything, and he’s been handling it well, all things considered. (Though we haven’t really talked about it more since that day.)

I guess I should just be happy that Baz is still with me at all. He’s probably just processing it, that’s all. Baz is a big thinker, like Henry. Baz is always thinking about something, I think. Always turning something over inside his head, analyzing data. It sounds exhausting. But whenever he’s lost in thought, this little wrinkle between his brows appears, and I want to smooth it back out with my thumb and tell him to stop thinking so hard. He stresses himself out a bit with all the thinking he does.

But I can’t talk. I try to not think about anything and look at me. I’m a mess.

Penny’s been bursting into the flat every day, trying to distract me and cheer me up and gauge how I’m doing. Today she comes in with a stack of envelopes stuffed under one arm, and an excited grin on her face. Trailing along behind her is Shepard, holding more envelopes.

“Simon, take this.” She doesn’t even say hello before she drops one of the envelopes onto my lap. It’s orange and has a face like a jack-o-lantern on the back. Looking at it, I remember that Halloween is in a couple days. Henry’s dressing up as a knight, I think. Ebb got him this shiny plastic sword he’s been swinging around for the last few days. (We had an epic battle; him with his sword, me with a meter stick.)

“What’s this?” I ask, accidentally tearing the envelope as I open it. Penny frowns at my lack of coordination but continues on. Shepard takes a seat beside me on the sofa and gives me a little wave.

“It’s an invitation. Agatha and I are throwing at Halloween party at our flat, and you have to come.” She must see the displeased look on my face, because she pins me down with a sharp look and adds, “It’s mandatory.”

Shep laughs and nudges me with his elbow. “So, it’s less of an invitation, and more of an order.”

Penny ignores him and perches on the arm of the sofa. “It’s a fancy-dress party. Agatha’s inviting her friends from uni. You remember Ginger and Minty, they’ll be there. And I’ve already given an invitation to Trixie and Keris next door.”

I groan. “Fancy dress? Oh come on, Pen, don’t make me—”

“It’s nonnegotiable, Simon.” Penny shuts me down. “You’d better put a costume together fast; the party is in three days. I expect to see you there after you’ve gone trick or treating with Henry. Maybe you could do a matching costume with Baz. I invited him too, of course.”

I groan again, louder and longer, and sink into the sofa. I’m not really one for fancy dress. I remember doing it as a kid with my mum, but not since. I still go trick-or-treating with Henry every year, of course, but I’ve never dressed up for it. I guess I felt too old for costumes by the time Ebb adopted me.

“Yeah, Baz wasn’t a big fan of it either.” Shep says, laughing again. “But maybe you two can dress up and be bitter about it together at the party, yeah?”

Well, if Baz is going to be there…

“Can Dev and Niall come too?” I ask.

“I already gave Baz their invitations. Come on, Simon, it’ll be fun. We’re going to wear costumes and eat sweets and drink too much.” Penny’s excited, which is weird. She’s not usually one for social events.

I narrow my eyes at her, still not quite convinced. “Since when do you care about parties, Penny?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t, really. But Agatha’s been wanting to throw a big theme party like this for a while now, and she finally wore me down. And, well…” Penny clears her throat and blushes a little. “It sounds kind of fun.”

“Will there be popcorn balls?”

“Yes, Simon.”

“And caramel apples?”

“ _Yes_.” Penny says exasperatedly. “But you don’t get any snacks unless you show up with a costume, so you’d better have one.”

I frown, wondering how I’m going to pull that off. Penny and Shep stand up and head to the door.

“Well, we’ve got more invitations to give out. Bye, Simon!” She calls as she marches out of the flat.

“See ya, Simon!” Shep says.

The door shuts behind them, and I exhale grumpily. Right as I’m pulling out my phone, it buzzes with a text message.

_Baz, 2:46 pm  
Did Bunce rope you into this Halloween party too? She threatened to burn all my clothes if I didn’t show up in a costume.  
Your best friend is a monster._

I snort.

_Simon  
yeah, she was just here.  
What are you gonna dress up as?_

_Baz, 2:47 pm  
Fuck if I know.  
Daphne is bringing the kids on Halloween so they can trick or treat here, so I’ll be at the party late anyway._

_Simon, 2:48 pm  
Why don’t they do it in their neighborhood?_

_Baz  
The mansion is in middle of nowhere Hampshire. They always come to the city for Halloween._

_Simon, 2:49 pm  
I’ve got to take Henry trick or treating too. You want to meet up with everyone togather? Then we can have fun with the kids and head over to Penny’s later :D_

He calls me as soon as I’ve sent it, and I smile as I answer.

Baz doesn’t bother with a hello. His voice is sharp, but I can tell he’s holding back laughter and maybe a little bit of worry. “You really want to introduce Mordelia to Henry? I’ve told you about Mordelia, right? She’s a chaotic little demon with no morals. The other children are somewhat normal, but Mordy is a handful.”

“Henry would like her, I’m sure of it. Besides, he needs to be around people his own age.”

“Yes, but Mordelia is evil.”

“Oh hush, it’ll be fun. You’ve got four siblings, right?”

Baz sounds exhausted when he says, “Yes. But I think you’re forgetting that my parents will also be coming with. Maybe not Malcom, but definitely Daphne. Are you sure you want to take on all of that?”

He doesn’t say it like it’s a challenge, but I take it as one. “Yes, I can handle it. You’ve met Ebb and Henry anyway, it’s about time I get to meet your family.”

He sighs a long, put out sigh, which means he’s about to agree. “Fine, Snow. But just be warned; Mordelia takes Halloween very seriously. She thinks she’s some kind of witch, it’s a whole thing.”

I laugh, remembering how Henry was running around the flat yesterday with his knight’s helmet on, spouting stuff about chivalry and slaying dragons. “Henry’s really into it too. It’ll be fun, Baz.”

“If you say so.”

We make plans to meet up at Baz’s flat in the early evening on Halloween, then set out with the kids to get candy for a few hours before his stepmother takes his siblings back to Hampshire and I give Henry to Ebb for the night. When I tell Henry about the plan, he’s almost as skeptical as Baz, but Ebb is delighted and wants to come along.

“With five littluns, you’ll be grateful for the extra help.” She insists.

Henry crosses his arms over his chest and glares at me. “Why do we have to go trick or treating with them?” He doesn’t like new people.

As I’m leaving the flat for the evening to go to a fight, I assure him that the Grimm kids are very nice from what Baz has told me. (I didn’t mention Mordelia and Baz’s theory that she’s a demon.)

“It’ll be fun, going around in a big group.”

He still looks unconvinced, so I give him the authority over my costume.

“Here, how about you pick my costume? I need one for Pen’s party, so make sure it’s good.” Henry’s eyes light up at that, and he immediately grabs some paper and starts making a list, shooing me out of the flat.

“Go, it’s a surprise.” He says, engrossed in his list.

I kiss him on the head and then go, eager to _do_ something with myself.

The fight is satisfying, if a little boring. Me and my opponent were evenly matched, but luckily, I didn’t go off. The fight ends nonviolently, with me just barely pinning the other guy. I think we only suffered a few bruises between the two of us, thankfully nothing visible outside of my clothes. But he was pretty amicable about it, and we shook hands after the fight, which doesn’t usually happen.

I don’t have to wash anything but sweat off me afterwards, and I’m feeling good enough to hang around the bar for a little bit before I go home. I’m sipping a beer when a slender, pale hand with fingernails painted red dangles a familiar orange envelope in front of my face.

“Oi, Snow, Baz gave me and Dev these today, what gives?” Niall sits beside me at the bar, still waving the invitation around.

“My friends are throwing a fancy-dress party on Halloween.” I say.

He rolls his eyes. His lips are also painted red, and his eyes are lined with silver. “ _Obviously_. I can read. But why? I thought that Penny girl didn’t like us.”

“Penny likes you fine. She wouldn’t have bothered to invite you if she didn’t.”

“Hmm.” Niall stuffs the invitation in his jacket pocket and shrugs. “I guess you have a point. Anyway, Dev is excited to go. He lives for this kind of thing. He even had a costume before we were invited, can you believe that?”

“What’s the costume?”

“He’s going as a superhero. I can’t remember which one. I guess I’ll just tag along with him and be the superhero’s love interest or something. At least I’ll get to play around with makeup.” He sighs.

I look around the bar, searching for a specifically familiar face. “Is Dev here?”

Niall shakes his head. “Not tonight. He’s having dinner with his parents.” He kicks at the legs of the barstool he’s sitting on, staring down at the floor. He looks kind of upset, which is something I’ve never seen on Niall. But his red lips are downturned and if I squint, I can see some red in his eyes. Has he been crying?

“Hey, are you all right?” I ask softly, turning to him and scooting a little closer to be heard over the music and chatter of the bar.

He shakes his head just the tiniest bit, still looking down at the floor. “Not really.”

“Do you…want to talk about it? I’m shit with words, but, uh, I can listen.” I offer, not exactly sure why. Maybe because Niall has seen me in rough spots before, maybe because I need a distraction from my own problems.

Maybe because for some reason, he’s my friend.

“Really?” Niall looks sideways at me without turning his head.

I shrug. “Sure. Christ knows you’ve dealt with my stuff, it’s the least I can do. You wanna go someplace…quieter?”

Niall looks genuinely surprised for the first time since I’ve met him. He looks at me with wide eyes for a moment, then looks around the crowded room like it’s the first time he’s noticed we’re here.

“Uh, yeah. That—that sounds good.” Niall says.

I pay for my drink and he follows me out of the bar. He doesn’t talk until we’re in a little public park a block or so away. We wordlessly sit on a bench, looking out at the deserted park that’s not much more than a small square of grass and a young tree.

“Dev and I had a row.” Niall says, scuffing at the ground with the heel of his big black boot.

“What about?”

Niall sighs, and his breath fogs up just the slightest bit in the chilly October evening. He runs a hand through his auburn hair and frowns. “He wants me to meet his parents, and I didn’t want to.”

“Oh.” Is all I can say. I don’t know a whole lot about Dev or his family, only that they’re posh and rich like Baz’s.

Niall stuff his hands in his pockets and slouches on the bench. “Dev’s a Grimm. They’re old, _old_ money. Traditional and fancy and all that. Dev is meant for it. He’s one of them, he’s well-bred and knows all about which fork is for what. And I really like him—I might even love him—but I don’t fit in with his world.

“I come from nothing. Parents kicked me out for being gay and trans when I was fourteen. I barely made it through high school, and uni isn’t going to happen until I save up more. I’ve been scraping by on next to nothing for years, and Dev wants me to go with him to that big house he grew up in and shake his parents’ hands like I could ever be good enough for their son.”

By the end of his explanation, he’s worked himself up into more of a strop. He tips his head back to keep tears from spilling down his face, breathing heavily. His cheeks are flushed, and his hands are dug deep into his pockets.

“I am _not_ fucking up my eyeliner for this.” He grumbles.

I lean back on the bench and look up into the dark sky above, trying to think of something to say.

“You don’t have to comfort me or anything. Dev and I argued about it, but we’ll be okay.” He doesn’t sound terribly sure about that.

“Well…” I run a hand through my hair. It’s still not long enough to do it properly. “You’re probably overthinking it too much.”

Niall’s head whips in my direction and he glares at me. “What?”

I shrug. “You’re overthinking it. Dev is obviously gone for you, especially if he wants you to meet his parents. And if they care about him, they won’t care if you’re different than them, yeah?”

His face takes on an even more sour quality as he grimaces. “That’s the optimistic possibility. But I don’t want to cause problems between him and his family. I mean, look at me, Simon. I don’t match up with Dev’s world.” He wraps his arms around himself and looks so sad and ashamed. It’s yet another emotion I’d never thought I’d see on Niall. He’s always so confident and fearless, with his bold makeup and clothes. I realize that his sense of style might be a way he protects himself.

“Maybe he likes that you’re different.” I say. Then I wish I hadn’t when Niall puts his hands over his face and groans.

“Oh, God. What if I’m just a way to rebel against his parents to him? Something to break up the posh monotony he’s surrounded with?”

Shit. I put my hand on his shoulder and try to backtrack. “Niall, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, it’s not true. Think about it. Would Dev want you to meet his family if he wasn’t taking your relationship seriously?”

Niall uncovers his face and looks over at me with a suspicious frown, narrowing his eyes. “I guess you’ve got a point there. You know, you’re freakishly good at this, Simon.”

“Thanks.” I laugh “I kind of get how you’re feeling.”

He tilts his head to the side. “How so?”

I lean forwards and brace my forearms on my thighs. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough for Baz, like I’m too fucked up to be with him.”

“What’s wrong with you, Simon? What kind of mess have you got?” He nudges my leg with the tip of his boot. “I’ve told you about my shit, it’s only fair you share yours.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “Yeah, okay. I’ll give you the short version.”

Quickly, not lingering on too many details, I tell him about how after my mother died, my dad took me in and was abusive and neglectful and then went to prison, and how now he’s out and has made contact. And saying it all as fast as I do, it sounds somewhat less awful, but my stomach still twists with revulsion when I tell Niall about Davy being back. And then I’m suddenly terrified of being out in the open, like Davy could pop out of the trash bin on the corner.

Niall leans back and lets out a long, low whistle.

“Fuck, Simon. Are you seeing a therapist? Because you should see a fucking therapist.”

I bark out a laugh. “No, I’m not. Maybe I should. Henry does, and he says it’s all right.”

“He’s right about that. Now come on,” Niall gets to his feet and turns to look down at me. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

Grinning, I stand up too. I’m fucking starving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I feel like being friends with you requires feeding you a disgusting amount of food.” He snorts.

“You’re not exactly wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NIALL IS A GAY TRANS MAN, FUCK YEAH (Anyone who tries to shit on that can fight me)  
> As always, thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos on my fic, I really appreciate it. Hope all of you are staying safe out there <3


	28. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz and a brood of children go trick or treating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know that it's not anywhere close to Halloween, but I wanted this. This fic is just all indulgence ya'll. And I wanted these idiots pining and flirting in silly costumes, sue me.

**Baz**

Mordelia is absolutely obsessed by my Halloween costume and I’m having a hard time pretending I’m not chuffed about it. She keeps trailing behind me, touching the tails of my coat and repetitively asking me to open my mouth and show her the plastic fangs I’ve got on.

I decided to lean into my hairline and be a vampire. Most of the components of my costume I found in my own closet. The white, mostly see-through shirt with the long lacy cuffs I had to go to a vintage store to find, but the rest I already owned. I’m wearing the flowing white top under a tailed waistcoat made of black silk, with a red cravat tied elegantly around my neck, and tight black leather pants. I’ve slicked my hair back to show off my vampiric hairline, and I’m suffering through the uncomfortable fake teeth in my mouth all for Mordelia’s fascination. I refuse to have fake blood dripping from my mouth, but I did take my black eyeliner pencil and draw two little dots on the side of my neck like bitemarks.

Mordelia loves it. She’s beaming at me like I’ve just given her a lifetime’s supply of candy. It makes my disdain for dressing up worth it. Halloween is Mordelia’s favorite holiday, and she plans her costume months in advance.

Ironically, she’s a werewolf this year. It’s a homemade costume, because she refuses to wear store bought costumes, and between the hard work of my stepmother and I assume Vera, Mordelia looks almost like the real thing. Her hair is purposefully mussed, a pair of brown fuzzy wolf ears poking up from the mess. She’s wearing this adorable pink dress that has been artfully torn, with brown fur leggings and a long-sleeved top underneath. Over her shoes is the same material, with pointy black claws attached to the ends. She’s also wearing matching gloves that look like paws, and her face has been painted like a wolf’s—her nose and lips and eyebrows are painted brown, and there’s fur drawn on her cheeks and forehead with facepaint.

She’s delighted that our costumes share a common theme, even though we didn’t plan it. We look totally different from the rest of the Grimm entourage, in their sparkly and bright costumes. Acantha is a cute little woodland fairy with flowers in her hair and a pair of gauzy wings on her back. Ophelia is a mermaid. She’s adorned in a troubling number of necklaces and bracelets and barrettes made of shells, with a long shiny dress patterned with rainbow scales. Daphne has dressed Magnus, who is barely four, as a jack-o-lantern. He’s wearing a poofy little orange outfit with a face on it, and a matching hat with a leafy stem on top.

Daphne, bless her, hardly managed to wrangle all of them into my flat. (I can’t even imagine how difficult it was to get them all ready back at the mansion.) She’s wearing a scarf patterned with pumpkins, but she hasn’t dressed up. The children run around my flat like wild animals while Daphne and I sit on the sofa, waiting for Snow to show up. The only stationary child is Magnus, who is sitting quietly in his stroller. Daphne keeps telling me how excited she is to meet my new boyfriend. Predictably, she was ecstatic with the idea of trick or treating with Simon and Henry.

She’s always been supportive of my gayness, and I love her for it. Father didn’t come. He doesn’t usually, he’s not one for this kind of revelry, and I’m sure the fact that my boyfriend is tagging along didn’t make it any more appealing.

“I’m so glad your boyfriend is coming with us; I’ve been so eager to meet him.” Her dark eyes sparkle with happiness, and she takes one of my hands in hers and squeezes. She really does care about me, even if I’m not related to her by blood. She wants me to be happy, it doesn’t matter if it’s with a man or a woman.

“Yes, well,” I try not to grimace. I know that Simon meeting Daphne will be infinitely better than when he met Fiona, but still. “He’s excited to meet you as well.”

“You’ve been so stingy with details about him, I’m dying to know what kind of man has caught _your_ attention.” She teases, winking at me.

I know she’s expecting a sophisticated, intellectual type that I’ve been known to be with before. (Not that there were many.) Simon is unlike anyone I’ve dated, and I’m wondering how Daphne will handle it. He’s an idiot in the best way, and I find it so embarrassingly endearing when he trips over his words and breathes with his mouth open.

“Simon is…well, you’ll see. He should be here any minute—” Just as I’m saying it, there’s knocking at my door, and my heart jumps into my chest. It could be trick or treaters, but it could also be Simon, and I always want it to be Simon.

I go to the door and open it, and the first thing I see are two cartoonish eyes staring back at me. I look directly down and see my boyfriend’s face. He’s blushing and looking like he wished I hadn’t opened the door. A slow, maniacal smirk is taking over my face.

“Simon Salisbury…are you wearing footie pyjamas?”

Simon goes from embarrassed to grumpy in half a second, and I couldn’t be more delighted.

My boyfriend is wearing a bright red dragon onesie. It looks soft and comfortable and he looks like he wants to kill me. If he did it while wearing this, I wouldn’t be mad. The only thing that ruins the image is the fact that Simon’s feet are stuffed into his trainers, but I suppose that can’t be helped.

There’s a hood shaped like a dragon’s head, complete with horns and a toothy mouth and a forked tongue dangling out over Simon’s forehead. The stuffed head makes Simon almost my height. I’m biting my lip, uncaring about how my fake fangs poke me, taking him in.

There’s a spiky tail poking out above his arse (which, of course, looks delectable in this getup), and on his back are two little wings. His face is almost as red as his costume, and he quickly tugs the hood off his head, looking away from me. His ears are red.

“Shut. Up.” He says through gritted teeth. I’m smiling wider and wider by the second.

“Simon, put it back on!” Henry’s voice comes from lower down, and I drag my eyes away from Simon—Simon in a fucking dragon onesie, _fuck me, this holiday is wonderful_ —and see Henry.

He looks absolutely precious in shiny plastic knight’s armor, with a helmet covering up his abundant curls, visor down over his face. At his hip is a plastic sword, and I finally get it.

Simon is a dragon. Henry is a knight. _Excellent_.

“Well aren’t you two quite the pair.” I’m trying desperately not to laugh, and I can tell it’s not working when Simon glares at me.

Henry puffs out his chest under his armor. “I know. Simon let me pick his costume.” Even. Fucking. Better. Henry sounds overjoyed with a hint of smugness, and I love this child so much. He is a gift to mankind.

I realize I’ve just been talking to them while they stand out in the hall, and quickly step aside so they can come in. Henry rests his hand on the hilt of his sword and marches inside with his head held high. I finally notice that Simon is carrying a covered dish, which must be for Penny’s party later.

“Happy Halloween, love.” I whisper in Simon’s ear as he walks inside and enjoy how he blushes deeper and growls at me at the same time. I take the covered dish from him and set it in my kitchen.

Simon’s tail swings around and his wings bounce a little as he walks, and I’m never going to recover from being this happy. Unable to help myself, I brush a hand over his shoulder, partly to feel how soft the fabric is (it’s very soft), and partly just to touch him. The sleeves of his onesie are pushed up to his elbows, showing off his colorful tattoos. I am taking the piss a bit, because he does look a bit ridiculous, but he also looks phenomenal, which is unfair. I carefully picked out every piece of my costume, and this moron puts on novelty pyjamas and still manages to look fit. There’s a zipper at the front of the onesie, and I desperately want to know if he’s wearing anything underneath it, but this is hardly the time. (Maybe, _hopefully_ later.)

Simon is sulking and glowering at me. He’s annoyed by my amusement at his getup, but I can see his eyes continuously running up and down my figure, and I know that he thinks I look good too. But then the children and Daphne are all crowding him, and his adorable angry pout changes into an adorable expression of surprise.

The children are all talking at once, but Daphne shushes them and smiles her wide, warm smile at Simon.

“Hello, I’m Baz’s stepmum, Daphne Grimm. It’s lovely to meet you.” She sticks out her elegant hand for him to shake.

Thankfully, Simon only stands there dumbly for a second before he’s smiling back at Daphne and shaking her hand. And I know Daphne’s done for when she sees that smile. It’s like Simon stores pure sunshine in his smile. You can’t dislike him after he’s smiled at you. Daphne practically melts as he beams at her. Her eyes gleam, and it’s obvious she’s already enamored with my boyfriend.

“It’s nice to meet you too. I’m Simon.” Simon gently nudges Henry at his side, then lifts the visor covering his face with a short laugh. “And this is my little brother Henry.”

Daphne, who is just filled to the brim with motherly instincts, bends down to shake Henry’s hand. Henry looks like doesn’t quite trust Daphne, but the woman is so friendly and kind that I know she’ll win him over eventually. He reluctantly shakes her hand and gives her a silent nod.

“Hi, Henry. Your costume is so fun. How old are you, love?”

“Nine.” Henry says quietly.

“Oh, how lovely. My daughter Mordelia is ten, you’re just about her age.” Daphne says, gesturing to Mordelia, who is busy scrutinizing Simon and Henry, dark eyes darting between the two rapidly.

“And these are the twins, Ophelia and Acantha.” The girls wave shyly at Henry and Simon, and Daphne turns around to lift little Magnus out of his stroller. “And this is Magnus, my youngest.”

Simon’s eyes go wide and starry, and he eagerly reaches for Magnus.

“Oh my God, he’s so cute. Can I hold him please?” Simon asks, surprising me. Is…is Simon a baby person? This is an unexpected and unfairly charming turn of events.

Daphne hands Magnus over, warning Simon about his squirminess. For a second, Magnus looks like he wants to cry because he’s not being held by Daphne, but Simon smiles at him and bounces him a little on his hip, and Magnus babbles happily and lets himself be held. It’s like magic, and I stare at Snow, completely gobsmacked.

Simon pats my little brother’s back and suddenly he and Daphne are in a conversation about Simon’s job, and she’s asking him about his baking. Simon stumbles over his words occasionally, but I have to give him credit. He’s devastatingly charming, and he’s already got my stepmother’s adoration. She keeps giving me these pleased little looks out of the corner of her eye as they talk.

We take a few minutes for everyone to use the loo and prepare their candy bags and adjust their costumes. The kids are revving to go, all crowded at the door and whining when we’re not fast enough.

Mordelia is tugging on my sleeve as we leave my flat. We stop at a few doors on my floor to collect candy from the neighbors I know have it. We also stop on the floor below us to visit Fiona, because Daphne is always asking after her and Mordelia thinks she’s cool.

Fiona has full-sized candy bars for the kids, who of course think she’s the best thing on earth when she hands them over. When she sees my costume, she snorts.

“Couldn’t give up the opportunity to be the center of attention, could you?”

“I suppose I couldn’t.”

Simon is keeping his distance from Fiona. She still hasn’t set things right with him, but this isn’t the time. We leave Fiona’s before the kids get restless again and visit a few other places in my building before going out to the street.

Mordelia leads the pack, furry feet marching confidently along. The twins follow obediently behind her, and Daphne pushes Magnus in his stroller behind them, leaving me and Simon and Henry at the back. Henry hasn’t let go of Simon’s hand except to go up and get candy. He’s obviously intimidated by Mordelia and the girls, who are like a little unit with Mordelia as their fearless leader.

Simon has tried to urge him to join them as they skip ahead and play around, but Henry has just shaken his head and stuck to Simon’s side, staying quiet. Henry is more talkative than Simon when he get’s comfortable, but that’s the key word. Comfortable. Henry takes a while to warm up to strangers. Simon has told me that Henry is afraid of saying the wrong thing to people. I understand that too well, so I don’t try to push Henry, even though I know Mordelia wouldn’t turn him away if he tried to talk to her. It’s not my place anyway.

I’m holding Simon’s other hand, so he’s walking between Henry and I. He’s taking turns chatting to Daphne just ahead of us, and then beaming up at me. Henry made him pull his dragon hood back up, and whenever Simon turns his head the stuffed snout of the dragon head bumps me in the cheek. I’d be annoyed if he didn’t look so wonderful in the onesie.

His eyes keep roving over me appreciatively, and the heat in his gaze almost banishes the chill of the evening. Simon is not subtle. It’s one of the things I like best about him.

When the kids, including Henry, go up to a doorway to receive candy, Simon leans up and kisses my cheek.

“You look so bloody fit like this.” He mumbles, eyes lowering to the ground as he blushes.

I lift his hand up to my mouth and press a kiss to the back of it. “Do you have a thing for vampires, Simon?”

He rolls his eyes. “I have a thing for _you_.” He insists. I try to pretend my heart doesn’t flutter at that.

It’s a few more doors down before Mordelia comes around from the front to walk with us in the back. She grins up at me ghoulishly, with her furry face and brown lips, then turns to Simon, walking backwards with her hands clasped behind her back.

“What are your tattoos? Baz didn’t tell me you had tattoos.” She says, shooting a mildly displeased look at me. I roll my eyes, and then frown when Simon lets go of my hand to extend his arm towards Mordelia so she can see his tattoo half sleeve up close. She eagerly takes off her werewolf gloves and grabs his wrist to inspect the ink in his skin, and Simon just laughs and lets her.

“There’s roses and vines and stars.” Mordelia nods, tracing her fingertips over the bold lines. “And I have one other one on my back—”

I make a shocked, undignified noise and stare at Simon, aghast. “You have another one?” I ask breathlessly. Simon blinks at me, furrowing his thick brows.

“Uh, yeah. You didn’t…” His cheeks go pink, and his voice drops in volume. “You didn’t see it?”

I want to tell him that no, I didn’t see it, and I would very much like to. I want him to myself, and I want to take my time unzipping that stupid onesie and worship every inch of his skin before I turn him around to see what I missed. (I can’t fucking believe I had Simon shirtless just a little while ago and didn’t see this tattoo. I’m kicking myself internally.)

Mordelia drops his arm and turns her attention to Henry, bored with this line of questioning. Simon and I sigh in relief at the same time and then look at one another in amusement.

“It’s Henry, right?” Mordelia says, pulling our attention back to her. She’s staring Henry down, and he’s practically hiding behind the visor of his knight’s helmet. He nods slowly. Mordelia’s at least a head taller than him.

Mordelia puts her gloves back on and then presses one paw to her chest. “I’m Mordelia. Can I borrow your sword really quick?”

Henry shrugs and unsheathes his sword and extends the hilt towards Mordelia. She grins evilly as she takes it, and I’m immediately worried.

“Thanks. Be right back.” Mordelia says, and then turns around to rush forward. I realize what she’s doing an instant before she does it.

She lets out a monstrous roar and races at the twins, who scream in terror and run off like scared deer. Mordelia laughs gleefully and chases them down the sidewalk, swinging the sword and causing other people out walking to duck aside to avoid being hit.

Simon and Henry stare in horror but Daphne and I just sigh. Daphne turns back and smiles apologetically at Simon as her oldest daughter continues to torment her other daughters with a toy sword. Magnus shrieks with laughter.

“Could one of you push Magnus in his stroller for me? I’ve got a wild beast to wrangle.” She says, grinning tiredly.

Simon immediately volunteers and takes over the stroller while Daphne hurries ahead to catch up to Mordelia and calm the twins down. It’s only thirty seconds until Simon has stopped to scoop Magnus up out of his stroller, delegating pushing the empty stroller to me. Unbelievable. It took me so long to get Simon to put Magnus back in the stroller when we started, and now I have to start all over.

“Disgusting.” I say with a sneer as Simon kisses Magnus’s forehead and holds him close to his chest, speaking in a honey-sweet voice about how cute Magus is in his little pumpkin costume.

Henry laughs but Simon ignores me, too busy fawning over Magnus’s tiny hands.

“I didn’t know you liked small children so much.” I say, keeping my eyes forward. I can’t look at Simon right now, I might melt into a puddle on the asphalt.

Henry leans forward to look at me from the other side of Simon. “Simon is like a baby whisperer. When we were in care, he was always with me and all the other littluns, that’s why he likes babies so much.”

Simon sticks his tongue out at Henry, and it makes Magnus giggle. “I like babies so much because you were a baby, and you were _so cute_.”

“Uuuuuugh.” Henry groans, ducking his head. “Don’t.”

Simon swings Magnus around in his arms and laughs along with my baby brother. “Henry, Magnus is precious, but you were, like, the cutest baby in the whole world. I’ll never get over it.” Simon’s eyes are elated, and he smiles almost devilishly at Henry.

Henry groans again, throwing his hands up over his face. “Stoooop!”

Lucky for Henry, Daphne comes back at that moment with his toy sword in hand. Mordelia trails behind her, head down in contrition but eyes alight with chaotic energy. She is rarely ever successfully scolded. The twins have returned too, and are sticking close to Daphne, wary of Mordelia at the moment. They’ll be her doting fans again in a few minutes.

“Here you go, Henry.” Daphne says, returning his sword to him.

With Simon’s arms occupied with Magnus, Henry is untethered from his security blanket, and I see him square his little shoulders in determination before marching forward. Simon seems to be holding his breath as Henry catches up to Mordelia.

We watch as Henry says something we can’t hear, then sticks out his hand to her. She grins sharply and says something back to him, then slips off one werewolf glove to shake his hand. Then they’re walking side by side, Mordelia doing most of the talking and using wide, sweeping hand gestures.

Henry seems to be listening to her thoughtfully, nodding along occasionally. His face is still guarded in the way it always is when he’s with anyone but Simon and Ebb, but he smiles sometimes at something she says, and beside me, Simon smiles.

“Told you they’d be friends.” He says to me quietly. Magnus is slowly falling asleep with his head on Simon’s shoulder, and I’m almost jealous of him. (Okay, more than almost.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Penny's Halloween party! Hope ya'll are enjoying this super early Halloween content! Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments on my fic, I love and appreciate you. Stay safe out there my friends.


	29. Nobody Knows Who Mothman Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon go to Penny and Agatha's Halloween party. There are friends and dancing and Simon ravages the snack table.

**Simon**

We quit trick or treating around 7:30, when the sky is getting dark and the kids’ bags are full of candy and their little feet are hurting. Magnus is passed out in his stroller, Mordelia and Henry are in an intense candy trade off, yawning as they negotiate the exchange rate of chocolates to lollies.

Baz and I end up carrying the twins as we head back to his flat. Baz initially refused to carry them when they were tugging on our sleeves and whining about how tired their feet were, but I couldn’t say no to their big eyes and pouty faces. As soon as I picked one up, the other started begging Baz in earnest, and he glowered at me as he picked her up as well.

I think I’ve got Acantha and he’s got Ophelia. They look so alike, with dark hair and eyes and the same smile as Daphne. The children all look like her and have skin significantly lighter than Baz’s. Magnus looks a bit like Baz, they have the same hairline and I guess they get it from their dad.

Daphne and the kids are lovely. Mordelia is a little wild, but she’s made friends with Henry, and the twins and the baby are precious. I can tell Henry likes Mordelia, at least enough to be actively talking to her. He’s finally found another kid as weird as he is.

Acantha’s fairy wings are draped over my arm, and her head is resting on my shoulder as she dozes off. The plastic flowers in her hair poke at my cheek, and she smells like chocolate. I’m carrying her like a koala, with her little arms thrown around my neck, and her legs wrapped around my waist. Baz has to carry Ophelia in a princess carry because of her long mermaid dress, and she’s completely asleep against his chest.

I look over at him and smile. “This was fun. You’ve got a really nice family.” I say quietly, not wanting to disturb Acantha.

Baz smiles back and readjusts his hold on Ophelia.

“I do.” He says softly, fondly looking ahead to where Mordelia is arguing with Henry about the value of taffy versus the value of bubblegum.

When we get back to his flat, we gather the children’s things and help Daphne load them all back into her car. Baz laughs when I struggle to strap a sleepy Magnus into his car seat. The twins are leaning on one another, already asleep in the back, and Mordelia waves goodbye to Henry as she hops into the car.

Daphne hugs me before they leave and kisses my cheek. “This was a delightful evening, Simon. You and Henry have to come visit us in Hampshire sometime. Keep it in mind, all right?”

“Of course, Mrs. Grimm.”

She pats my cheek and clucks her tongue at me. “Call me Daphne, love.” She hugs Baz goodbye, and then they’re gone. Ebb comes to get Henry and take him home, and I kiss him on the head and tell him not to eat too much candy all at once.

The little shit grins at me and says, “I can do what I want. You’re going out to a ‘grown-up party.’ I’ve got free reign of my candy without you there to eat it all.” Henry is bitter about not getting to go with us to Penny’s party. He’s been pouting about it all week, but it’s going to go late into the night and there’s going to be drinking and I know he’d rather be at home with Ebb watching Halloween specials while they fall asleep on the sofa.

He’s just staying mad on principle. He’s always been a part of the group with me and Penny and Agatha. He feels bad being left out, and I do feel bad about leaving him behind, but the rest of us are grown up now, and he’s not even ten years old yet.

Ebb laughs and takes Henry by the hand as they go. “Have fun at your grown-up party, Simon. Watch over him for me, will you Baz?”

Baz wraps his arm around my waist and kisses my temple. “It won’t be hard. He’ll be the only bloke in footie pyjamas.”

I growl and elbow him in the side. He and Ebb and Henry laugh, and then the door shuts behind them and they’re gone.

“Well,” I sigh and look at the time on Baz’s oven. It’s almost eight. “We should probably get to Pen’s soon—” Baz is on me quicker than I can finish the sentence, and it knocks the breath right out of me, because he hasn’t kissed me like this in a while. Not since I told him about everything. I guess he’s done processing.

His mouth is hot and demanding and I’m melting against him. His hands come up to push the stupid dragon hood off my head, and I can’t help but giggle into his mouth, and then he’s giggling right along with me. It’s a bit hard to kiss him with those fake fangs in his mouth, but kissing Baz is always wonderful.

This costume is so ridiculous, and Baz has been taking the piss all night. But when Henry showed up with it, I couldn’t argue. It’s not like I had any alternatives lined up. And it made him so happy when I put it on. So I decided to be Henry’s dragon. And I’m never going to live it down.

I feel like a knobhead standing next to Baz in his getup. He’s an unfairly sexy vampire. He’s gorgeous, and he’s wearing _leather pants_. I can barely handle it. (As if his fucking legs and arse weren’t distracting enough.) And here I am, in a fucking dragon onesie.

Baz pulls his mouth away from mine and runs his hands over my shoulders and down my arms, and then he squeezes my waist and I shiver and lean against him, tilting my face up in the hope that he’ll kiss me again.

“You look so fucking good.” I murmur, grabbing at his shoulders.

“And you,” Baz toys with the zipper on my pyjamas, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s using that voice again, the deep and sexy one. I’m feeling so lightheaded, and I’m starting to wonder if we should even bother going to Penny’s party. Can’t we just keep doing this?

“You have been holding out on me, love. You have another tattoo. Can I see it?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah of course.” He could tell me to set myself on fire in that voice and I’d listen to him.

“May I?” Baz tugs the zipper just a bit and looks at me, his eyes dark and hooded. I nod, and then he’s pulling the zipper down to my waist and pushing the fabric off my shoulders. I’m blushing down to my collarbones and he’s looking at me like I’m made of gold, and he’s kissing me deeply again and holding me close to him so I can feel the coolness of his silk vest against my skin. (I’ve been burning up in this stupid onesie all evening. I’m only wearing my pants underneath it, but it’s still much too warm.)

“Turn around for me, Simon.” I turn around and shiver again as Baz’s hands caress my back, starting down at my waist and then inching upwards to stroke my shoulder blades.

“Are those…wings?” Baz’s voice rumbles just by my ear.

They are. I got them when I was seventeen, before I got the sleeves done. They look like red bat wings, sprouting out of the skin between my shoulder blades. There are grey spikes on the middle joints where the wings spread out a little on my shoulder blades.

“What’s the story behind these?” Baz asks now, massaging the base of my neck and my shoulders. It feels so good that I close my eyes and lean back into him. He takes my weight easily, and I let out a pleased hum when he drops a kiss to the back of my neck.

Baz nips at the place when I take too long to answer, and I startle and laugh. “Why does there have to be a story behind it? Can’t it just be a tattoo?”

Baz drapes himself over me and wraps his arms around my waist, and I feel his pointy chin resting on top of my head.

“Well, is it?” He asks, and I know he already knows the answer.

“I mean, literally speaking, it is just a tattoo.” I stall. Baz pinches my belly in retaliation. I laugh and twist away from him, only for him to take the opportunity to back me up against his kitchen counter, boxing me in with his arms.

“Come on, love. Tell me, please?” Baz bats his long fucking eyelashes at me, and he is truly a lovely and strange sight to behold, with fangs in his mouth and that smirk on his lips.

I laugh and shake my head. “Not today. It’s not exactly a happy explanation, and I don’t want you to treat me like I’m made of glass again, so…” I rub the back of my neck with my hand, looking away from him. The playful expression on his face drops and concern takes its place. Shit. Why did I say that?

“Simon. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. I know you’re not fragile. I was just…” He presses his lips together and tries to think of a word.

“Processing?” I offer, shoulders curling inward.

Baz nods. “Yes, something like that. You’ve just been through a lot lately, and I didn’t want to put any pressure on you. I’m sorry.” He says, looking guilty.

I hug him, because he’s so good to me, and I—I’m definitely falling for him.

“No, you don’t need to be sorry. I get it. And…thank you. For, you know. Everything.”

Baz hugs me back. His lacy cuffs tickle the skin of my back. We hold each other for a few moments, and then he lets go and grabs the dangling sleeves of my onesie.

“Let’s zip you back up, love. We’re expected at Bunce’s party. The fate of my wardrobe is at stake.”

I groan but do it. Only because Penny promised me abundant snacks at the party. “This thing is fucking sweltering. I’m in just my pants under this thing and I’m still burning up.” I complain.

If I’m not mistaken, Baz blushes as he turns around to put on his coat and grab the cake I made for the party, because I can’t show up to any kind of event without a baked good.

It’s a pumpkin and walnut cake that I carved into the shape of a pumpkin and covered with orange coloured cream cheese frosting. I’m very proud of it, and I had to practically fight Henry off with a stick to keep him from “taste testing” it.

Baz and I take a cab over to Penny and Agatha’s place, and he holds my hand the whole way over. It’s a little simple thing, but it makes me unfathomably happy.

When we get to the party, it’s already in full swing. (We’re over an hour late, since we trick or treated with the kids. And Baz insists it’s good to be fashionably late anyway.) Baz makes me pull my hood up before we go into the party, and I growl at him, which just makes him laugh.

Penny and Agatha’s flat is full of costumed twenty-somethings. I recognize some of them. Trixie and Keris who live next door to me, Gareth and Rhys who went to high school with us. And a lot of Penny and Agatha’s friends from uni. There’s remixed Halloween music playing, and the flat is decorated with fake skulls and spiderwebs and carved pumpkins and black and orange fairy lights. I see a few people kind of dancing in place, but mostly everyone else is just drinking and talking and eating finger foods.

When Baz and I come in, Gareth is right by the door and sees me first.

“Hey, Simon! I haven’t seen you in a while, how are you? Who’s your friend?” Gareth is dressed like a cowboy, complete with a big hat and a huge shiny belt buckle.

“I’m all right. This is my boyfriend, Baz.”

Baz waves and offers a fanged grin. Gareth smiles back. “It’s nice to meet you, mate. Oh, Si, Penny’s been looking for you—”

Penny herself practically knocks poor Gareth aside to get to me. “Simon Salisbury! I say it’s a fancy-dress party and you show up in bloody pyjamas. Typical.”

“It was Henry’s idea!”

She rolls her eyes even as she’s hugging me. When she sees Baz, she nods appreciatively.

“Now, _that_ , is a costume. You look great, Baz.”

Baz smirks as Penny feeds his ego and straightens his red cravat. (I didn’t know what a cravat was until he told me tonight.) (Fit, posh bastard.)

“As do you, Bunce. This is a good look for you.”

Penny is a pirate. Her top is white and flowy like Baz’s, just less fancy. She’s wearing a purposefully torn skirt and leather boots and a bandana over her hair, and her costume is definitely more revealing than anything she usually wears, but Baz is right. She does look good, even with the eyepatch over one of her eyes. (She’s not wearing her glasses, and I assume she must be wearing her contacts, or she wouldn’t be able to walk around without bumping into things.)

“Ha, thanks.” Penny sees the covered cake in my arms and sighs good-naturedly. “Simon, I told you that you didn’t need to bring anything. Come on, the snack table is over here in the kitchen.”

I perk up at the mention of the snack table, and eagerly follow Penny deeper into the party.

Trixie and Keris—who are both dressed like Greek goddesses or something in matching white togas and dainty gold wreaths in their hair—give me and Baz high fives as we pass them.

I set my cake down at the snack table and eye over the sweets, but Penny pulls me away before I can get anything. At least she lets me get a drink, but still.

“Socializing first, stuffing your face later. Come on, everyone wants to see you.” She leads Baz and I back into the fray.

I look around for Dev and Niall while Penny introduces me to people I haven’t met. Niall gave me his phone number the last time we saw each other and texted to tell me that he and Dev had made up after their row and would definitely be at the party tonight.

I finally see them in a corner talking to…is that Shepard?

When Penny’s distracted with someone new coming in, I grab Baz and lead him over to Dev and Niall.

It turns out it is Shepard with them, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what he is. He’s wearing all black, with some kind of winged cape attached to his sleeves, with red goggles on his face. Sticking up from his hair are two black antennae.

Dev and Niall are much easier to figure out. Dev is Captain America, and Niall is Bucky Barnes, complete with a sleeve over one arm that looks like metal.

“Baz, nobody told me we got to do sexy costumes.” Niall complains, making Baz smile proudly. “Here I am in fucking comic book cosplay, and you’re looking like a snack in leather pants. Unfair.”

“At least you’re not in pyjamas.” I say, pulling at the neck of my onesie. It’s already warm enough in this room with all these people. Wearing this just makes it hotter. I pull off the hood to get some relief, and it does little to help. At least my drink is cold.

Dev and Niall laugh, and Baz looks Shep over with a questioning eye.

“Okay, I give up. What the fuck are you, Shepard?” He finally asks.

Shep groans in exasperation and based on the amused looks on Dev and Niall’s faces, I assume that he has been asked this question all night.

“Come on! How has nobody gotten it yet?” He throws his arms up in the air.

“Are you…Batman?” I take a guess.

Baz snorts into his drink cup. “A shitty Batman, if anything.”

Dev and Niall laugh, and Shep glares at Baz and I. “No, I’m not _Batman_.” He scoffs. “Come on, you guys really have no idea?”

I shrug, and Baz shakes his head. Shep hangs his head and sighs. “I’m the Mothman.” He says sullenly.

“The what?” Baz and I ask at the same time.

Shep raises his arms to show us the black wings attached to them and flaps them a bit like that’s supposed to give us some insight.

“Mothman! From Point Pleasant, West Virginia! You know, the cryptid? Big urban legend?” Shep explains, throwing his hands up in the air again.

“There’s a _West_ Virginia?” I ask, and Dev and Niall start cracking up again. Baz is looking at me like I’m an idiot, and Shep’s face is in his hands.

“How does no one here know about Mothman?” Shep laments as Penny comes up to us.

“They didn’t get it either?” She asks, and Shep shakes his head despondently.

Penny puts her arm around his waist with a sympathetic frown. “You’re in London, babe, not West Virginia.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I know. I just thought Mothman was a well enough known figure.”

“Apparently not.” Baz says, not even trying to hide his amusement. Penny takes Shep to go refill his drink and console him, and we talk to Dev and Niall for a while.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see Agatha in a pink miniskirt and heels. She’s wearing shiny lip gloss and her nails are painted pink as well. Behind her are two other girls. Minty and Ginger, I think. They’re both pretty like Agatha, and they’re also wearing pink skirts and lip gloss and heels.

“Oh my God, you’re Mean Girls! That’s brilliant.” Niall says.

From not far away, we hear Shep shout, “ _That_ , you immediately get?! Come on!”

“Shut it, Mothboy!” Baz shouts back at him.

“It’s Moth _man_ , you know that!”

Agatha hugs me and introduces Ginger and Minty to Dev and Niall and Baz. They fawn over Baz’s costume (and Baz himself, of course) and Agatha looks me over skeptically.

“Well, at least you’re not in trackie bottoms, Simon.” Is all she says.

Eventually, I finally get to return to the snack table, and Baz watches in disgust as I pile sweets and crisps and a slice of the cake I baked onto a plate. Then we return to the corner of the party where Dev and Niall have sequestered a few chairs for us. I let Baz do most of the talking while I stuff my face, only pausing occasionally to introduce Baz to people I know when they wander over.

I love telling people that the gorgeous bloke sitting next to me is my boyfriend. When Rhys wheels over to see me, he almost doesn’t believe it, and I love how Baz will rest his hand causally on my thigh or drape his arm over my shoulders, even as he’s ridiculing me for how much I’m eating.

Penny and Agatha are great hosts, and Penny keeps refilling my drink, though I suspect it’s less out of good hospitality and more about getting me drunk. (Penny thinks it’s hilarious when I get sloshed, because I get really goofy and childish.) I’ve got a small pleasant buzz going on despite Penny continuously pushing alcohol at me, because I’ve eaten a lot and I hold my liquor pretty well. She’s going to have to try a lot harder to get me wasted, but I don’t doubt her determination.

The party passes like this for a little while, with me making periodic trips to the snack table and sitting around with Dev and Niall. I know that this isn’t Baz’s scene, much like how it isn’t mine either, but he’s doing very well. He makes charming conversation with people and sticks close to me. He’s taken the plastic fangs out of his mouth so he can eat, and I’m happy to be sitting next to him even when he does make fun of me for how many popcorn balls I’ve eaten.

I know the chill mingling stage of the party is over when Penny stands up on the coffee table—which Agatha winces at—and claps her hands together loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“All right, people. We’re moving on to Phase Two.” Of course, a party hosted by Penny would have fucking phases. “We’re going to clear the living room to make it a dance floor.”

When she hops off the table, I get up and help push the sofa and the other living room furniture up against the far wall to make room for dancing. Then Agatha changes the music to stuff people can actually dance to, songs with loud and thumping beats and lyrics about awesome parties, and the main lights go off, and they must have gotten a strobe light because multicoloured light starts flashing in rhythm with the music and suddenly, people are dancing in a big crowd in the middle of the room.

Niall grins and grabs Dev, hauling him up out of his seat. “ _Hell yes_ , I’ve been ready for this.” Dev is helpless to stop Niall as he drags him into the mess of people and just starts fucking dancing.

Dev stands there dumbfounded for a moment, watching his boyfriend throw his arms up and start moving fluidly to the music. Surprising no one, Niall is a really good dancer. Dev is kind of stiff and awkward, but he starts to enjoy himself after a minute or two, dancing with Niall.

From beside me, Baz snorts at his cousin’s dancing, and then stands up and extends his hand down to me. I have a mouthful of these chocolate covered pretzels I found and stare up at him dumbly as I chew.

“Come dance with me, Snow. I know you can.” He winks, and I smile, remembering our first date. I take Baz’s hand and follow him to the makeshift dance floor, and with the way his hips are swaying, I almost forget that I don’t really know how to dance. At the pub when I danced with Baz, I just kind of grabbed him and moved around to the music, trying not to step on his feet. But this music is different, and it’s not meant for the kind of dancing I did with Baz before. I have no idea what I’m doing.

I stand in place like a numpty and Baz puts my hands on his hips, which are moving around fluidly. It’s the most distracting, hypnotizing thing I’ve ever seen. I’m just staring open-mouthed at him, my hands limp and useless resting on his hips. I’m standing in place, so Baz dances closer to me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. I wonder if I’m more than just buzzed, because the whole room is blurred together and all I can see is Baz.

Long black hair starting to come loose from the slicked back style he put it in for his costume, enchanting grey eyes looking right back at me, lips pulled into that sultry smirk that’s not helping with how lightheaded I’m feeling right now.

When I lean in to kiss him—because I have to, because I’d be stupid not to—Baz obliges and presses closer to me, and his hips grind into mine just right. I gasp into his mouth and then drag myself away, because the bastard is smirking again, and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. And Penny and Agatha’s flat surrounded by a bunch of people is not a good place to get a stiffy.

I glare at Baz, who is still moving his hips seductively and trying to drag me back to him. I shake my head at him and go back to the snack table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked writing the party scene, it was fun. As always, thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos on my fic! I really appreciate it, ya'll are the best. Been writing a lot lately because I'm quarantined in my house, so I hope people in the same situation as me can be entertained at least for a little while by my work.  
> Also, Shep is definitely a huge Mothman fan, I will die on this hill.


	30. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon recover together after the party.

**Baz**

Simon is completely pissed. He held out against Bunce’s endless stream of drinks for a surprisingly long time—the man can hold his fucking liquor—but Bunce is a force to be reckoned with. She’s fucking relentless, and I think Simon wanted the distraction after I teased him on the dancefloor. (I regret nothing, except maybe the fact that I didn’t get to dance with him more.)

Right now he’s laying on his back underneath the snack table, using a half-eaten caramel apple as a microphone while singing “Monster Mash” at the highest possible volume. (Why I’m infatuated with this man is beyond me.) (I blame his incredible biceps.)

The party has died down for the most part. People started leaving about an hour ago, after much dancing and drinking and candy consumption. And a terrible karaoke contest that almost had the neighbors calling the police on us.

It’s almost two in the morning, and the only people still here are Shepard, Dev and Niall, and of course, Penny and Agatha. Oh, and Agatha’s two friends Ginger and Minty, who she put to bed in her room when their tipsiness started making them drowsy.

Penny and Shepard are curled up on the sofa, which has been moved back to its original spot. Shepard has basically curled his entire lanky body around Bunce and is half-asleep with his face in her frizzy hair. Penny is recording Simon on her phone. (She’s been recording him since he had that drink that pushed him past the point of sobriety, and I can’t wait to hold the footage of his drunken idiocy over him later.) (He semi-coherently sang karaoke to “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé.)

Dev is also sitting on the sofa, with Niall lounging between his legs from the floor, chomping on lollipops whole and scrolling through his phone. Agatha is in the shower, and I’m trying to coax my very drunk boyfriend out from under the table.

He retreated here after his very entertaining and not at all graceful stint on the dancefloor after his karaoke performance, when he tried to do the macarena while also holding a drink. The only thing he succeeded at was spilling his drink all over himself.

“Simon, love, it’s time to go home.” I tell him for the thirtieth time. I’m hardly as drunk as he is. I still have my wits about me, but Snow is completely gone.

“Nnnnnooooo…” Simon croons into his caramel apple microphone, blinking up at me where I’m crouched to look at him under the table. His onesie is unzipped down to his bellybutton, tawny chest shiny with sweat. He’s flushed from drink all the way from his ears to his chest. I debate kissing his wet, open mouth to get him to stop singing.

“Baz, baby—this is my home now.” He gestures around him at his snack table shelter, smiling at me like I should move in there with him.

“I don’t see you paying rent, Simon!” Bunce shouts from the sofa, her phone still pointed at us. Niall snorts, holding an empty lollipop stick like a cigarette. He stands up and stretches his arms above his head, yawning.

“Well, it’s been fun. You know how to throw hell of a party, Penny.” He turns and helps Dev off the sofa, wrapping his arm around him because Dev is a bit of a lightweight. “Our Uber’s here. Bye everyone.”

Simon sings them a farewell that should wake up all the dogs in the building, and I help Niall get my cousin out the door. Agatha comes out of the bathroom in a plush pink dressing robe, a green face mask on her face. She’s even lovely with that.

“Goodnight, my friends. Simon, Baz, are you staying over?”

“Not if I can get Snow out from under your table.” I say, calling up an Uber for me and Simon.

“Never!” Simon growls from under the table. “This is my _house_!”

Agatha rolls her eyes and giggles prettily. “All right, Simon. Just try to keep it down, Minty and Ginger are asleep.” She disappears into her bedroom.

Penny finally puts her phone away and untangles herself from Shepard, who falls right over onto the sofa, practically catatonic. Penny slips his Mothman goggles and antennae off and drapes a blanket over him, then comes over to where I’m still trying to get Simon out from under the table. I can’t drag him out, he’s too heavy and all dead weight right now. I don’t even know if he can move even if he had the motivation to do so.

“Are you going to take him home, or is he staying with you?” She asks, nudging Simon with her bare foot. Simon tries to grab it.

“Penny! Come down here, be my roommate!”

I look down at him, trying not to laugh. “I suppose he can sleep over at my place.”

Penny whips out her phone again and types something into it. “Okay, good. Ebb assumed he would. She also said to tell you to use protection.”

I almost choke, and Penny looks up from her phone with a devilish smile.

“She did not!” I shove her shoulder, and she giggles.

“No, of course not. But _I’m_ telling you.”

“Shut up.”

We laugh, because we’re both a little drunk, and then look down at Simon, who is sloppily devouring the rest of his caramel apple, eyes closed in drunken bliss.

“Okay, Baz. There’s only one way to motivate a drunk Simon.” She puts her hands on her hips and gives me a serious look. “Food.”

“Interesting idea.” I crouch down again and pet Simon’s forehead. “Simon, love.”

He opens those beautiful blue eyes and looks at me dazedly. “Bazzy?” He says through a mouthful of apple and sticky caramel.

I ignore the atrocious nickname of my nickname and tell him that if he gets up right now, we’ll make pancakes back at my flat.

“Chocolate chip ones?” He says, starting to sluggishly scoot out from under the table. I don’t know how he can still want pancakes after all the food he’s eaten tonight. Just watching him eat as much as he has tonight was enough to make me want to swear off sweets for a long time.

I grip his arm and help him to his feet. “As many as you want, love.” The smile he gives me is bright and unrestrained. (Nothing about Simon is restrained, especially when he’s drunk.)

Simon lets me guide his feet back into his shoes, but he won’t let me zip up his onesie.

“It’s too hot.” He whines, leaning on me and pressing his sweaty face into my neck. It should be revolting, and it kind of is, but he’s so funny and sweet like this. He gives Bunce an enormous hug before we leave and continues to drape himself all over me in the lift, babbling nonsense about pancakes.

It’s an uncoordinated effort, getting back to my flat. Snow’s legs don’t seem to work right, and he practically passed out in the Uber, so he’s drowsy on the way up to my flat. I barely keep him from falling over and giving himself head trauma.

When we stumble into my flat, he announces that he needs to piss and then kicks his trainers off and immediately finishes unzipping the last few inches of his onesie. Before I’ve even got my door shut and locked, Simon Salisbury is standing in my flat in nothing but his pants. He sighs in relief in a way that would still be pornographic even if he wasn’t mostly naked now. He throws his head back and rolls his shoulders as he does, and it’s a crime against my sanity.

“Jesus _Christ_.”

I fall back against my door and try desperately to keep my eyes on Simon’s discarded onesie where it lays in a puddle on the floor. It’s a useless effort. The bastard stretches his glorious arms above his head as he walks somewhat unsteadily to my bathroom. The wings tattooed into his skin ripple as the muscles in his back shift.

And there are scars too. Some silvery and faded with age, some pinker and newer. On his chest and back, on his legs and upper arms. I only know what a few of them are from. I can probably guess the origin of most of them, and it makes my heart ache and my blood boil.

Simon is needlessly insecure about his body. I wish I could get across to him that I don’t care about his scars or his moles. (I love his moles, and I want to kiss them and his scars.) He’s the most stunning creature I’ve ever seen.

Everything from his large, boxy feet, to his hairy legs and thick and powerful thighs, to his adorable chubby belly and his broad and strong shoulders and chest, to his ridiculously long neck and his square jaw and his ordinary blue eyes I can never get enough of, Simon is a masterpiece designed specifically to destroy me. Covered in freckles and moles dotting his skin, the fairest shade of gold.

And his perfect, shapely arse in those dark boxer briefs he’s wearing don’t hurt at all.

While Simon is in the bathroom, I start taking off my costume. Wearing leather pants for hours on end was uncomfortable, but worth it, because I had Simon’s attention all night. I take those off first, and then the tailed waistcoat, and then the cravat. I’m left in just the white, lace-cuffed shirt when Simon wanders into my bedroom, looking around like he’s in a museum.

My bedroom isn’t as colourful and interesting as Simon’s, but it’s much larger. I have a queen-sized bed covered in my impressive (and necessary) collection of soft and warm blankets and pillows. There’s a wall that’s just bookshelves, where my books are organized alphabetically and by subject, and in one corner I have a chaise lounge next to a standing lamp where I curl up and read or play violin. There are a few pictures of my siblings and Fiona on the shelves, and a tall standing mirror hung on the door to my closet.

Simon looks around for a minute, blinking slowly as he takes in the room. His eyes linger on the bed as he walks over to me, stopping at an arm’s length away. For the first time since he basically stripped in front of me earlier, he looks a little bashful as he looks down at the floor, arms wrapped around himself self-consciously. He swallows, and it’s a whole fucking performance. The length of Simon’s neck makes every swallow much showier than it needs to be.

“D’you want me to sleep on the sofa?” He asks, but I hear the question he doesn’t ask.

I try to remember to breathe. “You can sleep wherever you want. The sofa is fine, but…my bed is big enough for two. If you want. It would be more comfortable.”

His eyes come up to meet mine, and a pleased smile is starting to break through his shyness.

“Yeah?” He asks, looking back down as if to hide his excitement. I realize now that he’s not looking at the floor. He’s looking at my legs and practically licking his lips at the sight of them. (Like I said. A crime against my sanity, this man.)

I nod towards the bed. “Go on, get comfortable. I’ll be there in minute.”

Simon nods and goes over to sit primly on the end of my bed, hands clutched in his lap. He follows me with his eyes as I leave the room to wash my face and brush my teeth. I take my pyjamas with me, because I’m too embarrassed and sober to change in front of Simon.

When I come back, ready for bed, my heart is pounding, and Simon is still sitting tensely at the end of my bed. He looks unreasonably stressed for someone who just a few hours ago was belting out Beyoncé lyrics to an adoring (and drunk) crowd. I turn off the lights—all that breaks the darkness is the light from the lamp beside my bed and from the streetlights outside my window— and come around to the side of the bed I usually sleep on. He watches me peel back my covers and get in. I pat the spot beside me and dare to look at him.

His eyes are wide and practically glowing, and his mouth is open and he’s looking right back at me.

My mouth is unbearably dry, and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears when Simon crawls up to my side—the sight of him in nothing but his pants, on his hands and knees is a blessing and a curse—and lays beside me. His head is on one of my pillows and his body is in my bed, under my covers as I drape them over him. He stares up at me, blue eyes starting to droop. He’s calming down, and the drowsiness is coming back to him.

He lays there on his back, watching me switch off the lamp and get comfortable. It’s mostly dark, only a faint glow coming in through my window. I lay down and turn on my side to face him, and he does the same after a moment, yawning right into my face. He’s an obnoxious, mouth-breathing moron and he’s so _warm_.

He slides closer to me and carefully—so carefully—wraps an arm around my waist, eyes trained on my face the whole time, looking for a sign if he’s doing something I don’t like. I don’t even blink, just smile at him. He gifts me with a smile in return, and his arm curls around me, pulling me closer.

He smells like sweat and alcohol and sugar, and his eyes are already sliding closed as he tangles his legs with mine.

“Night, Baz.” He whispers.

“Goodnight, love.”

**Simon**

Baz isn’t much of a morning person. Hungover Baz is even less so. I wake up at dawn naturally, with a slight headache, and Baz has cocooned himself in all the blankets. (It’s all right—I think I kicked most of the blankets off of me in my sleep anyway.) All I can see of my sleeping boyfriend is the top of his black-haired head.

I get up to use the bathroom. My head hurts a little, but mostly I just feel gross. Crusty from dried sweat and being drunk. I eyeball Baz’s large shower and then go back to his room and poke the top of his head.

“Baz!” I whisper. There’s no response. I poke his head a few more times. “Baz! Can I use your shower?”

From inside all the blankets, Baz groans in pain, and his head pops out from the blanket cocoon. His eyes are squeezed shut against the morning light and he grimaces in my direction. His long hair is sticking up in all directions and there are dark shadows under his eyes. I guess he’s not resistant to bad hangovers like I am.

“Yes, you fucking menace. Go shower and let me sleep.” He hisses, immediately burrowing back under the blankets again.

I laugh and want to peel the covers back so I can kiss his grumpy face, but I think he’d snap at me for that.

Baz’s shower is lovely. It’s huge and has glass walls and a small built-in bench and shelf inside for all of his products. I use his cedar and bergamot body wash and enjoy how the water feels on my body. The water from the showerhead feels like warm rain.

I get out and dry off with one of Baz’s fluffy white towels, and then put my pants back on. I wonder if Baz will lend me a pair of trousers at least. I really don’t want to have to wear that bloody onesie again.

And that’s when I remember that I stripped down to my pants in front of Baz last night, and then slept with him in his bed. Of course, that’s less embarrassing than the shit I did at the party. (Penny’s never going to let me live it down.) (Why did I think karaoke would be a good idea?)

I decide to not worry about that now, it can’t be helped. I’m just glad I didn’t do anything too terrible to Baz. Aside from yet again falling into a drunken stupor in his home.

Baz’s flat feels clean and peaceful at this hour. I use a bit of his mouthwash because my breath is awful, and then start making breakfast. Eggs and bacon and pancakes. And Baz even has orange juice. I make coffee as well, and it’s the aroma of the rich brown liquid that finally draws Baz out from his room. He glares at his own flat like it’s personally offended him.

He’s in these fancy silk pyjamas, and his eyes are still mostly shut, and he glares at me suspiciously as I hand him a mug of coffee and smile at him and his bedhead.

“How the fuck are you this perky? You drank more than I did, and I feel like absolute shit.”

I shrug in answer, turning to plate the food for us to eat. “Dunno. I have a bit of a headache, but I drank a lot of water, so it should clear up.”

He watches with a grumpy frown on his face as I bring two full plates over to his table and wave him over.

“Come along and eat, I’ll get you some water.”

Baz shuffles over to the table and sits down, grabbing a piece of bacon. I can feel his eyes on me as I fill a glass and come over to him. He looks me up and down, and I know I’m flushing down to my chest and I know he can see it because I’m just wearing my pants.

I place the glass in front of him and rub the back of my neck, turning my red face away from him. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of trackie bottoms or something I could borrow, would you?”

Baz suddenly sets his coffee down and wraps his arms around my waist, causing me to stumble forward into his embrace. He presses his face into my stomach and kisses me just above my bellybutton. He nuzzles his face against my belly, and I love the gentle, tender press of his long nose and sharp cheekbones against my skin. And the touch of his soft lips as he kisses me there.

I lift my hands and run my fingers through his hair, shivering against his touch. His elegant hands come to grip my waist; the calloused pads of his fingers tickle my skin.

“Why would I want to spoil this wonderful view with clothes? Even if they would be an improvement upon your usual garb.” Baz’s voice rumbles teasingly.

“Huh? What—oh.” It takes me a moment too long to get his joke, because his lips are moving against my stomach and I swear his fingers are twitching in the direction of my arse. He laughs, and I can feel it reverberate through me. Baz’s hair is shiny and soft even when it’s tangled like it is now, and it threads through my fingers like silk.

“I quite enjoyed the sight of you making me breakfast in your pants. Why didn’t you put on an apron, love, that would have made it even better.”

I still can’t quite believe it when he flirts with me like this, when he calls me beautiful or gorgeous or says I’m worthy of his attention, of his praise. When he calls me love, I almost believe I’m in a fantastical dream. I’m practically melting into his arms, embarrassed and kind of chuffed beyond belief.

“But I’d be happy to give you some clothes. Come with me, love.”

Baz tightens his arms around me once more, and then he releases me and stands up, takes my hand in his and leads me into his bedroom, and then through another door connected to it.

“ _Oh my_ _God_.”

I should have assumed Baz’s closet would be enormous, and full of pretty, posh clothes. Honestly, I expected nothing less. His closet is a neatly organized rainbow of colours and fabrics and kinds of clothes I’ve never even seen before. He has all his shoes displayed on a rack, and one panel of the wall is just for jeans. (I’ve never met anyone who hangs up their fucking jeans.) It’s obvious that Baz spends a lot of time in this room. There’s a joke there somewhere, but I’m too distracted by all the clothes.

I rush forward, letting go of Baz’s hand to touch a long, deep red garment that I can’t identify.

“Baz, is this a fucking cape?” I gasp, taking it off its hanger to swing it around my shoulders. It _is_ a cape, with an ornate metal clasp at the neck and a hood. It’s made of velvet I think, and the inside is lined with silk. I pull the hood over my head and grin at him.

He gives me an unimpressed look, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s a _cloak_ , Snow.”

I twirl around, and the cape flutters around me. “It’s definitely a cape. You own a fucking cape, Baz. Where would you even wear this? The opera? A royal ball?”

“I could go to an opera if I wanted, Simon.” Baz snaps, going over to a drawer built into the wall. I laugh and spin around in the cape again. He looks through the drawer pulls out a pair of dark grey trackie bottoms and a plain white tee shirt.

“Here, these should fit.” Baz tosses the clothes at me and I fumble to catch them, still laughing about how Baz owns a _cape_. I am _never_ letting this go. But I do take off the cape and hang it back up in its place, then pull on the normal clothes.

The trackie bottoms are long on me, and just a tad too tight around my thighs and hips, and the shirt is tight in the shoulders, but I suppose it’s better than being mostly naked. And I’m not going to survive through today if Baz keeps looking at me like he wants to jump me. (I wouldn’t complain, but I don’t think this is the time.)

“Let’s go eat breakfast before it gets cold.” I say. Baz and I leave his closet and go back to his kitchen to eat.

We talk about the party last night while we eat. And by talking, I mean Baz verbally raking me over the coals of the fire of my embarrassment and regret. I was a mess last night after Pen managed to get me drunk. Baz goes into great detail about my drunken adventures. From the dancefloor mishaps to the karaoke incident, to trying to live under the snack table.

After, he leaves me in his living room to go shower. I offer to go home so he can be in peace, but he refuses.

“Let me take you home, Simon. Just wait and clean out my pantry to entertain yourself while I shower.”

I groan and dramatically fall backwards onto his sofa, because Baz’s showers are at least thirty minutes long. But it’s just for show. I like being here, and I don’t mind waiting for him if he’s going to take me home and hold my hand on the tube.

I’d wait forever for Baz, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos on my fic! I love and appreciate the support and sweet things ya'll say.  
> Stay safe and have hope <3


	31. Good Advice from an Unlikely Source

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and friends eat cake! Simon has problems (again.) (still.) and gets some advice from the last person he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter, ya'll, and pretty angsty. Okay, super angsty.

**Baz**

Henry’s tenth birthday is in several days, and I’ve been letting Simon use my kitchen to experiment with cake recipes for the celebration. He’s been here every afternoon or morning he has free and I’m there to let him in. I keep opening my door to him, cake pans and ingredients in his arms. He’ll dump the stuff on the counter and kiss me on the cheek and then get to work.

Feverishly mixing, baking, icing, scribbling down notes and ideas on scraps of paper he finds. Sometimes he’ll be doing something, and then he’ll just stop and run to the store to get an ingredient. He’s always asking me to taste batter and buttercreams and ganache, cutting little cubes of his test cakes to shove at me.

Everything he makes is delicious. My kitchen is often in chaos, but I don’t mind. Simon always cleans up before he goes, and leaves treats behind for me to eat. And I get to watch him work and enjoy his close proximity. I’ll sit with a book or my laptop out of his way and listen to the sounds of him chopping things and mumbling to himself about measurements and flavor compliments.

Today I’ve invited Bunce, Shep, Dev, Niall, and Agatha over so they can taste test Simon’s creations and help him choose which to make for Henry’s birthday party. (Also, because I will surely get fat if I keep eating his baking as much as I have been, and I figure between the five of them they can eat the leftovers that have been piling up.)

“Okay, so I’ve narrowed it down to three options here.” Simon is saying, gesturing to the three little perfectly circular cakes set in front of him, each iced neatly. All of us tastetesters are sitting at my island, a fork in hand, ready to test the cakes Simon has created from the ground up. He’s made his own recipes, and I have no idea how he does that.

We try the honey-vanilla cake with the sweet cream icing, and it’s delicious and moist and light. Then there’s the dark chocolate and cinnamon cake, which is rich and lucious and lovely.

“This one is sour cherry,” he points to the last cake with the cherry-vanilla icing and decorative cherry on top. He’s obviously the most excited about this one, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“It’s got sour cherry jam in the middle, and dried cherries in the batter.”

We all lean forward and take a piece of the cake, and as soon as we’ve each taken a bite, its obvious which cake has won. I almost moan at the taste—the icing is smooth and perfectly balances out the sourness of the jelly filling and the cake practically melts in my mouth. Penny closes her eyes and sighs happily, and Shep’s eyes get really wide and he goes back for another bite of the cake, nodding enthusiastically at Simon. Dev and Niall are singing their praises in the form shoving each other’s forks out of the way as they also try to get more. The little cake Simon made is disappearing fast. Agatha and I are the only ones who aren’t practically fighting over it. (Though I kind of want to.)

When the cake is gone, Agatha reaches over and squeezes Simon’s hand. “Oh, Simon, that was divine. You have to make it for Henry, he’ll love it!”

“Dude, can I just get, like, a big jar of the filling? It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Shep says.

Simon blushes from the compliments and rubs the back of his neck. “You think it’s good enough? Not too tart?”

“Simon, it’s absolutely perfect. Henry might want to eat the whole cake himself.” Bunce assures him.

Niall pouts at the empty plate where the sour cherry cake once was. “What do I have to do to get you to make me one of those for my birthday?”

Dev pulls the honey-vanilla cake to himself and starts eating that too. Niall slaps his hand and pulls the plate between them. “Hey, share!”

“Simon, mate, you’ve got a gift.” Dev says.

“I’ve been telling him that for years.” Penny adds. She and Shep have started eating the rest of the dark chocolate and cinnamon cake, and Agatha is looking over the other test cakes that have been wrapped up on my counter.

“Have you given any thought to going to culinary school, Simon? You’re already so talented at this, I can’t imagine how amazing you’d be if you trained professionally.” Agatha says, daintily taking a bite of a carrot cake Simon made yesterday.

Simon is blushing past his hairline and busies himself with putting used dishes and utensils in my sink to begin washing them. I come over to help him and kiss his forehead, which only makes him blush harder.

“She’s got a point, love.” I tell him softly. I love the idea of Simon going to school and eventually making a career doing something he loves. And he’s the best baker I’ve ever seen, and he obviously has a deep appreciation and passion for it. But the man has no ambition that he’s shown, not even a passing mention of a dream job or anything.

He seems happy enough working at The Thrifty Tea Rose, seeing Henry to and from school, and fighting every week and a half or so. He cooks and bakes and doesn’t do anything to build himself a life, a future, outside of his current life with Henry and Ebb.

He seems happy, but…I want more for him. He can’t just stay with Ebb and Henry forever. I want him to want more for himself, and to grow into the great person I know he can be.

We’ve talked about my dreams and plans for my future, but not his. I don’t know if he even has any.

Simon doesn’t say anything back to either me or Agatha. His jaw is clenched as he scrubs at a mixing bowl and doesn’t look up.

Penny and Agatha share a look I don’t understand, but it’s knowing and intense.

“Ooh, you could be a pastry chef and wear one of those fun hats.” Shep says.

“Chef Simon!” Niall hums. “It has a nice ring to it. And you could open your own bakery and—”

Suddenly and violently, Simon slams the bottom of a metal mixing bowl into my sink, creating a startling crash. The kitchen falls silent. His hands are trembling, his breathing is irregular.

“Simon—” Penny tries to say after a brief, shocked-silent moment. But she doesn’t get out more than his name before he’s turning around, a smile so fake on his face that it looks painful.

“Milk!” He almost shouts. “We need milk! Can’t eat cake without milk. I’ll just—I’ll run out and get some real quick.” His voice is too fast and strained like he really is in pain. He’s already running out my door with his head down before any of us can argue. It closes abruptly behind him, and he’s gone.

I have milk in my refrigerator. I know he knows that—he fucking brought it here and used some of it for his baking. I stare at the door for a moment, and then look at Bunce, because I have no idea what just happened. Her head is in her hands, and Agatha mutters out a heartfelt curse.

“What happened? Did I say something wrong?” Niall asks softly, looking around in concern.

“We didn’t mean to upset him. Is he okay?” Shep adds.

“Yes, what the fuck just happened?” I round on Bunce.

She lifts her head from her palms and smiles wanly at Niall and her boyfriend. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. Simon is…fine. He’s just…” Penny looks at a loss for words for once.

“He’s working through some things.” Agatha speaks up. She looks guilty as she absently twirls a piece of her white blond hair. “I shouldn’t have pushed him about school.” She mutters a second later.

I’m getting agitated, because I don’t understand. I don’t know what just happened, and I’m worried out of my mind for Simon and annoyed that I don’t understand what’s wrong or why he reacted like that over something like this.

“What. Happened.” I ask Bunce again. She’s Simon’s best friend. She has a wealth of information about him, and I’m missing so much.

“Should I go after him? What’s going on?” I demand.

Bunce shakes her head. “No, don’t do that. Let him cool off. He’ll come back on his own. He’ll tell you eventually.”

“What, like he told me about Davy? When the bastard showed up and forced him to?” I snap, furious now. Bunce flinches and Agatha gasps. Niall grimaces, and Dev and Shep look clueless.

I don’t mean it, not really. I _know_ why Simon waited so long to tell me about his father. I’m just lashing out and upset and worried and hating myself for not knowing why Simon stormed out of my flat. (Again.) (Sometimes I really don’t like my aunt.)

The only thing I’ve succeeded in is making Penny angry. She glares at me, and it is a truly terrifying sight. She even gets up out of her seat to argue with me properly. She’s more than a head shorter than me, but she makes up for it in fury and strong eye contact.

“You know damn well why he couldn’t tell you. And he told you when it mattered. He’ll come back and tell you about this when he’s ready, but it isn’t my place to tell you, and it’s sure as hell not your place to ask me to do so.” Her voice is steel, and her eyes are full of fire, and I feel smaller than a speck of dust.

Penny doesn’t break eye contact when she says, “I’m going to go home now. I expect you to bring over some cake later, along with an apology.” She whirls around and begins marching out of my flat, and Shep shrugs at me before he follows her. Agatha goes too, giving me a meaningful look on her way out.

I’m left with Dev and Niall, who look at me with wide eyes.

After a few moments of quiet, Dev clears his throat and says, “So…is this one of those situations where you need company or when you want to be left alone?”

I go into the living room and sit on my sofa, emotionally exhausted. “You can leave. Feel free to take some cake with you.” I sigh.

Dev gives me a comforting pat on the shoulder as they leave.

“I’m sure you two will work it out. Simon’s a reasonable bloke.” Niall assures me, and then they’re gone.

**Simon**

I run out of Baz’s flat under the flimsy excuse of buying milk, and immediately go to the stairwell and start bounding down the steps, two at a time. I don’t want Penny or Agatha—or worse, _Baz_ —to find me.

I feel like I’m suffocating.

They were just all being nice, that’s all. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I’m an idiot. They were only being friendly and supportive, and they want good things for me because they care about me for some reason.

Pen and Aggie just want me to be the best I can be. They want me to go to school and make something of myself, they want me to harness my potential. They want me to be happy and successful because they’re my best friends and they’re good people, and…I’m not worth it.

They say these kind things to me, try to give me confidence and encourage me to be a better version of myself. And I can’t explain to them that it’s hopeless, that _I’m_ a hopeless case who is going nowhere.

The idea of me going to school is laughable. I’ve never been good at school. Sitting down and staying still and paying attention to something all at once is difficult for me, it always has been.

And even if I could focus and learn, what would be the point? I’d still never be good enough to succeed. It would be a waste of time and resources to even try. It’s not worth it. _I’m_ not worth it.

I can’t tell Penny and Agatha this, because they’ll fight me on it. They think that just because I’m good in the kitchen I’ll be good at making a career or whatever out of it, and they think I have potential. They’ll start telling me that I can do it, and that I can go to school and get good grades and be a professional chef or a landscape artist or something.

And Baz is obviously of the same mind. He cares about me as well. He thinks I’m good enough for him, for a bright and successful future that I could never achieve. I couldn’t stand there with him while he thought I could be more than I am. He already knows I’m broken, and now he’ll know how truly useless I am.

Baz…

I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve anything but this dark pit swirling inside me.

In the lobby of Baz’s building, I almost crash into his aunt Fiona, nearly making her drop her groceries.

“Oi! What the fu—oh. It’s you.” She blinks, surprised. Then she takes in my appearance. She’s so much like Baz. Same sharp gaze, same intimidating demeanor. But Baz is soft and sweet around me, and Fiona is cruel. She hates me. Maybe as much as I hate myself.

I’ve been crying since I got down the first flight of stairs, and I know I’m flushed and breathing heavily and probably look like I’m mad. I can’t even speak. I just kind of grunt at her. And I’m still crying. _Fuck_.

“You look rough. You and Baz have a row? What’s wrong?”

She’s literally the last person I want to see right now. Well, second to last. No matter how much I dislike someone, there’s always that one person who I’ll despise more than all the rest.

“Nothing. Leave me alone.” I growl and try to get past her. She steps in my way immediately.

“Wait, just a second. I’ve been meaning to apologize.” I freeze at that. Of all he things I thought she’d say, that wasn’t on the list. I stop and step back and look at her.

I wipe my face with my sleeve and try to pretend I wasn’t crying my eyes out just a second ago.

“Okay.”

She sighs and it blows the white strand of her hair in front of her face upwards. “As Baz might have told you, I was purposefully trying to rile you up and see if you’d get violent when I met you at the dinner. I’ve seen you fight in the ring; thought you were crazy. I didn’t want Baz to be with someone who could hurt him. You got angry, but you didn’t strike me. And honestly, kid, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did.” Her smile is razor sharp.

“If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s being a bitch.” Her expression goes serious again, the joke gone from her tone. “I am sorry, though, for upsetting you. I was thinking more about Baz and less about you, and that was shitty. You don’t have to forgive me, I just wanted you to know; I’m sorry.”

Baz told me that but hearing it from her is different. And the sight of her makes me angry, but her voice is sincere.

I wipe my face again with my sleeve and try to look less pathetic than I feel. “Er, thank you.”

Fiona looks at me and tilts her head to the side like Baz does sometimes. “Baz is happy with you, you know. I haven’t seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

I look down, away. “I’d never hurt him, but you were right.”

“About what?”

I feel like crying more, but I desperately don’t want to do that in front of Fiona. I don’t like her, but I do accept her apology.

“I’m not good enough for him.” I say, my voice broken even to my ears.

Fiona squints at me, and then suddenly she’s shoving one of the paper bags of groceries into my arms.

“Come on, boyo. Help me put my things away. I’m fucking exhausted.”

I only follow Fiona into the lift because I figure a good place Baz won’t come looking for me is with Fiona. And also, I can see a tin of bikkies that I like in the bag she gave me, and maybe if I go with her, she’ll share them with me.

Fiona and I don’t talk in the elevator, or in the walk down the hall to her flat. She unlocks the door and then kicks it open with her steel-toed black boot. I’m wary of entering her flat, and hover in the doorway for a moment before Fiona calls to me from inside.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, come in, there’s not an anvil waiting to fall on your head if you step inside.”

I shuffle cautiously in and shut the door behind me. Fiona’s flat is the same layout and size of Baz’s, but instead of the clean and crisp lines of Baz’s minimalist-inspired style, Fiona’s is…different.

All over the walls are posters for punk bands and concerts and albums. She has shelves in her living room, but there are only a few books, and the rest is all vinyl records and peculiar bric a brac, and weirdly enough, overstuffed manilla folders as well. She has a massive record player by the windows, and lots of soft rugs on the floor. Instead of the ceiling lights illuminating the flat, Fiona has all these strange lamps everywhere, giving off softer golden light through their colourful and oddly shaped shades. There are ashtrays placed strategically around the place, and she has a black and white striped sofa that matches the curtains that I think Niall would adore. (I think Niall would adore this whole flat, honestly.)

It smells like tea and faintly of cigarettes, and it’s chaotically messy. For a minute I just stand there, because there’s just so much to look at. Agatha once took me to an old antique store, and Fiona’s flat feels like that. Stuff crowded everywhere, so many things of interest shoved all into one place that you have to keep looking at it for a while to really take note of everything.

I know I’m looking around at her stuff too much, but I can’t be bothered to care. She just has so much stuff, and the whole place is just a big mish mash of colour and items.

As I set her groceries on her kitchen island, I see a suffering echeveria succulent next to a large stack of manilla folders tied up with string. It’s small, and looks like it doesn’t get watered enough, and like it hasn’t got enough light where it is.

“Oh no, you poor little thing,” I say, picking up the plant in its clay pot. One of its leaves fall off as I do, and I gasp and look at Fiona accusingly. “You’re killing her!”

“What are you going on about?” Fiona closes her refrigerator where she was putting away her eggs and milk as I brush past her to get the plant some water at the sink.

“You haven’t been watering this echeveria!” I tell her, turning on the tap to give this poor plant some much needed water.

Fiona looks like I just said something in a foreign language. “You mean that little thing? Some bloke was trying to be cute and gave it to me. No idea what it is.”

I scowl at her and turn off the water, letting the soil drain any excess into her sink. I put my free hand on my hip and shake my head.

“This is a succulent. They need to be watered at least once a week and this kind needs lots of sunlight. And if a bloke gave me one, I’d probably marry him.” I add, indignant and huffy, holding the plant to my chest protectively. I didn’t like Fiona already, and now this! The Internet exists, she could have looked up how to take care of the echeveria. I can’t even tell what variety it is, and the pot its in is too small for it to grow properly.

She raises an eyebrow in the same way Baz does, unphased. “Noted. I’ll be sure to inform Baz of your opinion on succulents.”

My face flushes, and I growl at her. She rolls her eyes as she continues putting her groceries away.

“If you care so much about it, you can keep it. I couldn’t take care of it anyway.” She snorts. “I’m not cut out for keeping things alive. It’s why I never had any kids. Or a goldfish.”

“Those two things are very different.” I squint at her, because she might be a mean person and a bad plant parent, but she’s one of Baz’s favorite people, and I’m trying to figure out why. “So you’re not married then?”

“Ha!” Fiona laughs as she flattens the paper bags and stuffs them into a drawer that holds several others. “Fuck no. I don’t think I could keep a husband alive either.”

“What do you do? Like as a job?”

Fiona smiles and lays her hand on the tall stack of full manilla folders on the counter—I notice that she, like Margaret, wears a lot of rings and bracelets. Her smiles aren’t comforting, really. They’re more menacing than anything, and this one kind of makes me want to run away.

“I’m a private investigator.” She says proudly, patting the folders.

“So, like, you solve mysteries for people?” That actually sounds cool as fuck. And I bet Fiona would be pretty good at beating the information out of someone or just intimidating people to get them to tell her things.

She barks out a laugh and goes to fill a kettle and put it on the stove. “Sometimes. But what I do most of the time isn’t like it is on the telly. I get a lot of clients that are just married people wanting me to spy on their spouse to figure out if their husband or wife is cheating on them. And if someone wants to find someone who’s hiding, I’m also good at that.” She shrugs.

“It’s not terribly exciting most of the time, but it’s better than just mooching off my inheritance. Keeps me busy, pays the rent.” She turns the kettle on and pulls out a box of tea. “I’ve got chamomile and Earl Grey, what do you want?”

“Earl grey.”

“You’re getting chamomile.” She says even as she pulls out two bags of Earl Grey. “Grab those bikkies for us, will you?”

And that’s how I find myself on Fiona’s black and white striped sofa, drinking tea out of a chipped mug and eating bikkies. We’re sitting on opposite sides, face to face with our legs tucked up underneath us. We’ve taken off our shoes, and Fiona’s socks have cartoonish hands making obscene gestures on them in a repeating pattern.

I think I’m starting to get why Baz likes her. She’s mean, but she’s also pretty funny. She still scares me a bit (and I think she prefers it that way) but she’s not attacking me or anything.

She tells me some wild stories from her youth, about the shenanigans she gets up to as a private detective. Before we sat down, she put on some rock album I’ve never heard, but it’s at a low volume and I find that I like the sound of it.

I even tell her some things about me. My job at The Thrifty Tea Rose, which she thought was hilarious, considering my reputation in the ring. I tell her about Ebb and her obsession with goats, and about Henry and how he seemed to make friends with Mordelia on Halloween.

I keep getting distracted though, because on the wall of her living room, hung up amongst the music posters, is a large photograph. One of the women in it is obviously Fiona. Even if Fiona herself wasn’t sitting right next to me, I’d know. That white streak must be natural. Fiona’s young, hardly an adult, in a cap and gown, holding a diploma and smiling like she’s about to take over the world—but also like she’s really happy. Leaning into the woman beside her.

The other woman is older, taller, with the same dark hair minus the streak, and the same rich brown skin. And I look at that woman, and…I thought Baz was a lot like Fiona, and he is, but that woman...

 _That’s_ Baz’s mum. Natasha. Fiona is imposing, but her sister is regal, standing tall and holding a baby Baz, with round red cheeks and chubby little legs. Baz looks so much like his mother that it almost hurts. They have the same smiles and hair and energy about them.

In the photo, Natasha is sharply dressed and smiling elegantly into the camera, and I almost feel as if her grey eyes—Baz’s eyes—are seeing me through the photo.

Fiona sees me looking at it and smiles like I haven’t seen before. This smile is soft and fond and loving. She turns to look at the photo too, and sighs.

“That was taken the day I graduated high school. Nobody but Tasha believed I’d pull through. Of course, she pushed me harder than anyone else. She was so proud, that day.” Fiona tries to discreetly wipe her eyes. I pretend not to notice that her eyes are misty.

“You all look so alike.” I say quietly, stating the obvious.

She sniffles and nods. “I’ve always been the wild one in the family, but Baz is truly his mother’s son. She was brilliant, and he takes after her. Even now, after she’s been gone so long.” Fiona looks down into her half-empty tea mug.

“Baz told me about that. I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. She nods, and we’re quiet for a minute while Fiona seems to be collecting herself.

When she looks back up at me, she’s as fierce as ever. “You’ve seen me almost cry. So either I have to kill you, or you tell me why I found you sobbing downstairs.”

I jump at the sudden change and almost spill my tea. “I—I wasn’t _sobbing_ —” I try to argue.

“Nuh-uh. Go on, tell me the story, give me the messy details. You and Baz had a row, I can smell it.” She insists.

I growl and lean back into her sofa. This odd visit has been a great distraction from the stunt I pulled, running out of Baz’s flat like a moody teenager. I didn’t even grab my phone or wallet or keys, I just ran. I had to get out of there. I’ll have to go back, too. I’m just avoiding it. With Fiona Pitch. Life is strange.

“Okay. Fine. So, I was at Baz’s and he and our friends were there, and they were trying out these cakes I made for my brother’s birthday, and—"

Fiona interrupts me with a bored groan. “Ugh, I don’t care about the fucking setup. What had you crying in public like you were in a stupid movie?”

I glare at her. “I’m _getting_ there!” She rolls her eyes.

“Get there faster, I’m aging.”

“Shut up. So anyway, they liked the cakes I made. And then my friend Agatha brought up me going to culinary school. Which, like, she and my best friend Penny have suggested it to me before, but it’s dumb, so—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Fiona stops me again, putting up her hand as if to physically pause my story. “Why is it dumb? Baz says you love cooking and making bread and all that shit.”

My shoulders slump. “I do,” I say into the rim of my mug. “But I can’t go to culinary school. I’m not—I’d never be any good.”

She raises her eyebrow. There’s a mark in the skin there, like she had a piercing once but doesn’t wear it anymore. I wouldn’t doubt that my guess is correct.

“How do you know you wouldn’t be any good? The way Baz talks about your food, you’d think you were Gordon fucking Ramsey.”

My ears turn red and my stomach does something funny, because apparently Baz talks about me to his aunt. And says nice things. Fuck.

“I just wouldn’t be.” I tell her through my teeth, irritated that this warm feeling I’m having is accompanied by Fiona.

“But this all sounds fine so far. Your mates want you to go to culinary school, they think you’re hot shit. What’s the problem?”

I tuck my tea between my knees and throw my hands up in the air in frustration. “The problem is, Baz and everyone else agreed!”

Fiona looks at me like I’m an idiot, drumming her sharp, black-painted nails against the ceramic of her mug. “Still not seeing the problem, boyo.”

Making an aggravated noise in the back of my throat, I get up and start to pace the length of Fiona’s living room, from the sofa to the record player and back. I can’t bring the words out of my mouth, and movement helps sometimes. Fiona’s eyes follow me like she’s watching a tennis match.

“ _The problem_ is that they think I’m good enough to go to school and _be_ something, but I’m—I couldn’t—I’m just not good enough, and they think that it would be worth trying, and it’s not.” I was mostly yelling at the beginning, but somewhere in the middle I lost steam and it just comes out quiet and pathetic.

“ _I’m_ not worth it.” I whisper it, but she can hear, her face is pensive. “And I couldn’t tell them that, so I left and ran into you.”

I collapse back onto the sofa, my eyes stinging with tears for the second fucking time today. I close them and lean my head backwards, trying to swallow everything down again.

It’s silent for so long that I think Fiona is just going to let it go now that it’s out there and move on, let my dignity die in peace.

I shouldn’t have let myself imagine the glorious possibility that Fiona would make anything easy.

I hear her set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft _clink_ , and feel her readjust her seat on the sofa, facing forward instead of towards my spot like she was before.

She starts speaking, saying words I was completely not expecting. I wasn’t expecting her to try and comfort me. I half expected her to agree with me and let me wallow in my own self-loathing. But she doesn’t. I open my eyes. She’s not looking at me. Her feet are on the ground, and her elbows are resting on her knees, and she’s staring blankly ahead, seeing something I can’t.

Fiona says: “After Tasha died, I didn’t let myself grieve for a long time. There were things that had to be taken care of. Her husband was useless—all the bastard _did_ was grieve—, and so it fell to me to get things in order. And then there was Baz. Someone had to take care of Baz, because Malcom couldn’t get his shit together.”

Her voice is soft and distant; she’s talking, but she’s deep within her mind, her memories.

“I didn’t let myself think about what happened to my sister, didn’t let myself dwell on the fact that she was gone for _years_. I dropped out of uni after she died, and never went back. I moved back into Pitch Manor and took care of my nephew and helped put his father back together, and I didn’t dare mourn her, because I knew if I opened that door, there’d be no closing it.”

She closes her eyes and her head dips. I don’t think I’ve taken a breath since she started.

“After Malcom remarried, and Baz finally had competent support, I left and went to London. And I opened the fucking door and fell apart. I did things that I’m not proud of, Simon Snow. Things much worse than putting people in hospitals with my fists.

“I lost myself—destroyed myself—on purpose for a long time. I thought, ‘What’s the point? She’s gone, and I’m already at rock bottom; why should I even try to pick myself back up?’ I didn’t hold anything back, and I figured that my life was over the day hers was. I felt like that bright future she saw in me died with her.”

Fiona takes a deep breath. Somehow, she’s not crying. I am, because of course I am, but she’s not. She sits up and turns her head and her gaze pins me in place. Because she’s looking at me like she _knows_. Like she knows exactly what kind of darkness I have inside of me.

She’s looking at me like she understands.

“I was almost thirty before I figured out that feeling awful for being alive while she wasn’t was a mockery and shame of who she was. She believed in me, she thought I could be something great. It was actually Baz who made me realize it. Because if anyone understands being alive while someone you love is dead, it’s that boy.

“He was just a kid, but he told me that he was going to be a teacher, just like his mum. He was going to continue her legacy and be brilliant. And I realized that this prepubescent nephew of mine was carrying on with his life. He’s always blamed himself for what happened, but he was living. Baz is making a life for himself; he’s always pushing forward. So, I followed his example and picked myself up off the ground. Did some jobs, figured out what I wanted to do. It was hard work, and it took a while. But now I own my own business. And I’m happy.”

My chest feels like someone has stabbed it with a thousand needles, and then injected warmth into it. It hurts, and I’m crying, but I feel notably less shitty than I did before, somehow.

Fiona is still looking at me. “I thought I wasn’t worth it, Simon. And I think you’re selling yourself short too. You deserve a chance. And if you don’t want to go to culinary school or whatever else, then don’t. But if there’s even a tiny part of you that wants to go—that wants to do _something,_ whatever it is—and those cruel thoughts in your brain are telling you you’re not good enough? That you’re not worth even trying? Then you have to do it to prove those cruel thoughts wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I'm not projecting my own issues onto Simon, how dare you.  
> Hope ya'll enjoyed Fiona, I really like writing her, she's fun. And I decided to make her a private detective, because why the hell not? She'd kick ass at it, and this is my fic and I do what I want. Does anyone actually read these? I could just be talking to myself here, but whatever. I'm good company.  
> Thanks to all of you lovely people who have left comments and kudos on this fic, you are all so sweet and encouraging, and it makes my heart happy. Sorry I'm so bad at responding, I never know what to say to people who like my work. So I'm spoiling you with all these updates! I'm bored in quarantine, so I just keep on writing.  
> Stay safe guys, and have hop <3


	32. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon comes back to Baz.

**Baz**

Simon comes back almost an hour later. He knocks on my door—at the sound of it, I nearly fall off my sofa where I’d been waiting, tying myself into knots with worry. I do not walk to the door like a normal person; I nearly trip over myself running there. I throw it open and there he is, holding a little succulent and looking up at me contritely.

He’s been crying. I’m very familiar with Simon’s after-cry face. All red and sticky with heat, his blue eyes even brighter than usual from the colour in his face.

“Simon,” I breathe, unsure if I should embrace him or yell at him or shut the door in his face. He left without his cell phone, for fuck’s sake. I couldn’t even text him to see when he was coming back or where he was. What if he’d gotten hurt? I’ve been horribly close to twirling my hair. (It took me forever to break that habit, and I refuse to fall back into it.)

He rushes forward and wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my shoulder.

“I’m sorry—” He’s already saying. Sobbing it. “I was stupid. I shouldn’t have left, and I’m sorry.”

All my frustrated worry over the past hour melts away because he’s back, and he’s in my arms, and he smells like sugar and Earl Grey. And I do want to demand him to tell me where he’s been and what upset him earlier, but it can wait. I’m so relieved he’s back. That he chose to come back. (I was worried he never would, which is ridiculous. He left his fucking wallet and keys and everything here.)

My hands come up and rub his back, and I shuffle our entwined bodies inside and shut the door, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“It’s all right, love. You’re not stupid, don’t say that. Shhh.” I whisper into his hair and hold him close.

He lets me let go of him long enough to get to the sofa, but then he practically crawls into my lap. His hands tangle in the back of my hair, and I can feel his open-mouthed breathing against my neck.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He says again, sniffling.

I stroke his shoulder and kiss his head again. “It’s all right, Simon. It’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “It—It’s not. I ran out like a dick, and I’m sorry. I freaked out, and I didn’t want you to see it, and—and I just—”

“Deep breaths, love. Just calm down, and we’ll talk about it, okay?”

He wordlessly nods and sinks into me, lets me really hold him. I stroke his back and press my lips to his head and wait for his breathing to calm down, for his heart rate to slow. I wait for him to break the silence.

“I was downstairs. With your aunt.” He says, not meeting my eyes.

 _That_ , I didn’t expect. Oh, God, how much more damage could my aunt possibly do? Shit.

I try not to sound as panicked as I am. “Fiona? Why would you be with her?”

A shrug. “She found me on her way in and we went to her flat. She said sorry for that thing at the dinner. And we…talked.”

I laugh a short, humorless laugh. “What on earth did you talk about?”

Simon shrugs again. He’s still not looking at me, but that’s okay. He’s right here, close enough I can see all the freckles on his face.

“About work. And family. And this one concert she went to, where she ended up falling asleep—”

“In a dumpster, with a roadie. Yes, that’s her favorite one to tell.” At least she didn’t try to tear him apart again.

“She’s not so bad. Kind of cool, actually.” He admits sullenly. “I wanted to hate her, and I still do, sort of, but she was, like, mostly nice. She gave me tea and biscuits.”

I snort. There’s one very obvious path to Simon’s heart, and it’s through his stomach. I’ll have to shake Fiona down for details later, but I’m just glad that she and my boyfriend made up, honestly.

“Baz?” His voice is small when he says my name, and I start getting nervous again.

“Yes, Simon?”

He swallows, I can hear the sound in his throat. “I don’t…I don’t like myself all that much.”

My mouth opens automatically to tell him that it should be impossible not to like him, that he’s the best person I’ve ever met, and he’s kind-hearted and funny and brave and precious—

His large, warm hand gently claps over my mouth, stopping all my mushy feelings from spilling out. Now Simon is looking at me, his brow set in solemn determination. I’m trying to frown at him with just my eyes. I’m frowning underneath his palm.

“Just let me get it out.” He doesn’t remove his hand until I nod. He doesn’t hold my gaze any longer than that and looks down again at our joined hands.

“I freaked out and left today because Aggie brought up culinary school, and then _everyone_ was talking about culinary school, and…” He blows out a harsh breath from his mouth, and his cheeks puff out with it.

“It’s hard to put into words…” He mumbles, squeezes his eyes shut. It takes him a moment to say it: “I hate it when people say things like that to me. Nice things about how I could be something better.”

I take his face in my hands, trying to get him to open his eyes and look at me. He doesn’t. I run my thumbs over his cheekbones, over and over again.

“Why?” I whisper. It’s all I can say. The inside of my head is buzzing, because Simon just said he doesn’t like himself, he’s saying—

“Because I don’t feel like I’m good enough.” His shoulders twitch, like he was going to shrug but the weight on his shoulders was too much.

“I was never great in school, and I don’t think I’d be able to do it right and get passing marks—and even if I did somehow, I wouldn’t make it out in the world doing something like that, you know? So I lose it sometimes when people say I could, because it feels like I’m lying to them or tricking them into believing I’m someone I’m not.”

Simon starts to pull away from me and scoot away on the sofa. “So, that’s what today was. I’m really sorry, I never wanted to talk about this and bother you with it—OOF!”

In a moment of panic, I’ve tackled Simon to the sofa. My arms wrap around his waist and I use all my weight to just fucking hold him down before he can get away and push all this back into whatever dark corner of his mind he keeps these awful thoughts in.

I didn’t think, I just needed him to stay in one place, so I acted. (I think all this time with Simon is rubbing off on me.)

I think I’m feeling more horrified than anything else, really. Righteously angry, too, just at the situation.

“Baz, what the hell—”

“No, you’re not going to brush this aside, I want to talk about this.” I’m laying half on top of him, trying to pin him to the cushions.

He squirms and tries to get my arms to unlock from his waist. “We just did!”

“No, you just told me what the problem was. Now, we’re going to talk about it because all of what you just said was bullshit.” I press my face into his back and squeeze tighter, trying to get him to stop wriggling around.

“Hey! No, it wasn’t! I told you why I left, now we can move on—”

“Move on, my arse! Sit still, you self-depreciative nightmare!”

Simon has far superior upper body strength, so he does manage to force my arms away from his waist, but here’s the thing…

I have superior leg strength.

Simon throws my arms off, but he doesn’t expect me to then jump on him like a monkey while he stands and tries to get away. I wrap my strong legs around his waist now and lock my arms around his neck in the world’s most caringly aggressive piggyback ride.

“Baz—” He gasps, toppling backwards back onto the sofa, unable to compensate for my sudden added weight on his back. (I don’t know how he isn’t falling over all the time, with his broad fucking shoulders.) (Beautiful, fit idiot.)

Of course, now he’s crushing me and has effectively knocked the breath from my lungs.

“What is wrong with you?” Simon growls. Luckily, he sits up a bit so I can breathe. I don’t let go of him though. Christ knows he’s a flight risk.

“No, Simon, I want to talk about this.” I hook my chin over his shoulder and readjust my arms over his shoulders. “And apologize. I didn’t mean to put any pressure on you today, and I know Bunce and Agatha and everyone else didn’t either. We just want good things for you, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt like this.”

Simon’s hands come up and hold onto my arms, but he doesn’t pull them away. He dips his head, and from where mine is I can see the moles on his neck. His lashes look dark against his tawny skin when he closes his eyes and relaxes into my full-body hug.

“I know.” He says quietly. He doesn’t need to be much louder. “And I’m sorry I reacted like that. But we really don’t need to, like, talk about it more. I’m really okay, I promise. Fiona…kind of helped me, I guess? It’s hard to explain. She didn’t magically fix it or anything, but she made it…less complicated, sort of.”

I loosen my hold on him a bit, but don’t let go completely. “What did she say to you?”

Simon breathes in nervously and his fingers stroke over my own. “She told me about the hard time she had after your mum died.”

“ _Really?_ ”

My heart almost stops beating in my chest. Fiona’s always happy to talk about my mother. Fiona talking about my mother’s death, and how she struggled to cope for so long afterward is an entirely different story. It took _years_ for her to even tell me about it. Her telling Simon about it is an even stranger anomaly than her inviting him into her flat for a little chat in the first place.

She must have had a really good reason in her head to tell Simon about those years when I hardly ever saw her, when she was self-destructing because of her own grief and guilt.

How upset was Simon that my hard-hearted aunt decided to tell him about the darkest years of her life?

Simon must hear the shock in my voice because he’s quick to explain. “I don’t know, I was surprised too. I think she was maybe trying to give me advice. She said I shouldn’t listen to the mean thoughts about myself in my head.”

I raise my eyebrows and hook my chin over his shoulder, turning my cheek into his warm neck. He leans into me and relaxes, and I know he’s not going to try and run again so I let my legs unfold from around his waist and drop my arms to take their place, hugging him from behind.

“For once, Fiona might be right.” I murmur into his ear.

“Yeah. She gave me something to think about, I suppose. So, can we let it go for now? I don’t really want to go through everything again.”

I don’t want to let it go. I want to go through this again and help him dismantle all his self-loathing point by point, but…his eyes are still red and puffy from crying, and he’s looking at me like a kicked puppy.

“Ugh. Fine.” I sigh and Simon smiles and closes his eyes in relief.

“But I want to come back to this later.” I add hurriedly. “If you ever want to talk to me, you can, love. Always. You don’t need to contain all of this inside you.” I squeeze him a little for emphasis, and he grunts.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Simon says through a yawn. His upper body begins tipping over, dragging me with. He flops onto his side and pulls his legs up onto the sofa. I readjust my limbs and tuck my face between his shoulder blades. If he wants to nap, I’ll be more than happy to be the big spoon.

“I can’t believe I freaked out like that in front of all our friends.” He mumbles after a few quiet moments.

I shamelessly nuzzle my face into his back and snuggle closer, draping an arm over his waist and tangling my legs with his.

“It’ll be all right, love. They just care about you.”

“Hey Baz?” Simon asks sleepily. I know what he’s about to ask.

“Yes, love?”

“Can I sleep for a few minutes?” He already sounds like he’s halfway asleep.

“Of course.”

Simon’s head drops and I reach over to grab a pillow, so he doesn’t get a crick in his neck. He hums lazily in thanks, and then he just drops off effortlessly. I don’t know how he can fall asleep on command like that.

I snuggle closer to him to really get the benefits of his excessive body heat, and then I’m falling asleep too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait! I started working again, and my poor leg muscles have been sore as hell and I've been so sleepy whenever I have free time. (I've got to get used to working again. I've been sitting on my ass and doing nothing for over a month and now my body has forgotten I ever did any kind of physically strenuous activity.)  
> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this fic! I appreciate you guys so much.  
> This is a smaller chapter than I usually do, but it felt like it should be by itself. Hope you've enjoyed it! More soon, stay safe out there in the meantime.


	33. Pulling It Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon takes a big, good step. Baz is a very good boyfriend.

**Simon**

He gets to me before I’ve even washed the blood off my face. All I can think when I see him is that I’m glad I didn’t see him when I was in the ring. Because I would have stood there in pure terror and the other bloke would have been able to knock me over with one well-placed hit.

Davy has found me again, and this time there’s no Miss Possibelf to save me from it. No Baz to pick me up off the ground.

There’s just me, surrounded by people who only know me because of what I can do with my fists. I have a split bottom lip and my knuckles are throbbing. (I went off, but only a little bit. My vision was red around the edges, but my mind didn’t blink out completely.) (I broke the other bloke’s nose, knocked him out cold.)

He’s standing in front of me with his shitty mustache and this awful smile on his face, and I’m frozen, just like last time. I flinch when he raises his hand, but he just claps it onto my shoulder. And it’s worse than him hitting me somehow, so much worse. His hand on me makes me want to vomit, even through the fabric of my shirt.

I jerkily shrug his hand off and step backwards—we’re surrounded by people, all drinking and talking and laughing. He’s standing in the way of the exit. The noise over the loud music playing is starting to make my head hurt. Or maybe that’s just because I haven’t breathed since Davy stepped in my path.

“What are you doing here?” I gasp.

He tilts his head to the side and smiles condescendingly at me, like him showing up is in any way normal or okay. “I came to see you fight, son. You did very well. You have an impressive reputation here.”

I close my eyes and shake my head rapidly back and forth, try to ward off the panic. I can’t fall apart, not here.

“Stop finding me. Stop calling me son, stop looking at me—go away. You need to go away—” My voice is shaky, but it comes out loud and firm.

He frowns at me. “Simon, I’m your father, you can’t just shut me out. You’re a grown man now, let’s talk like grown men.” He steps towards me and moves like he’s going to put his arm around me in a loving paternal gesture. Like we’ll walk upstairs together and have a pint like a good, normal father and son.

I shove him away from me so hard he stumbles into the person behind him and then falls to the floor on his arse. The crowd around us gets quieter as they watch us, wondering if they’ll see another fight tonight.

Davy looks up at me with his mouth open, like he can’t believe what’s happened. As he gets to his feet, he gets angry, but I’m well acquainted with his temper.

“You little shi—”

“Shut the fuck up!” My words are coming out smooth and correct, and I couldn’t be more grateful for my mouth working with me on this. My hands ball into fists at my sides, and I hope I look bloody terrifying with blood on my mouth and a murderous look on my face.

“You don’t get to show up and act like you deserve to be here. I don’t ever want to see you again. If you ever come near me or my brother again, I’ll bash your fucking face in.” I didn’t open my mouth to threaten him, but here we are.

Davy’s eyes go wide and for a moment, I see fear cross his face before he tries to cover it up with a calm, if semi-nervous smile. He tries to put his hand on my shoulder, but I smack it away. He cradles it to his chest like it hurts, and I hope it did.

“Simon—”

 _No_. I shove him aside with my shoulder as I bulldoze my way to the exit. I hear him shout my name again, but I don’t stop. I run up the stairs, and if people don’t get out of my way, —most of them do—I shove them aside in my haste to _get the fuck out of here._

I don’t even wait in the bar for my money from the fight. I run straight outside into the street and start sprinting, going in no particular direction. I just run, adrenaline and fear and rage fueling each step. I keep moving even after my frenzied energy has run out, slowing to a brisk walk, my brain on autopilot. I don’t think. I don’t let any thoughts into my head.

I just focus on breathing in and out, until suddenly I’m looking up at a familiar door in a building that’s not mine. The palm of my hand is thumping on the door before I even fully register where I am. (I know I don’t want to get the blood on my knuckles on Baz’s pristine white door.)

He opens the door a moment later, and I catch a whiff of his posh conditioner. He’s not in pyjamas, but he’s certainly more dressed down than he usually is. He’s in a pair of soft-looking, well-fitted dark sweatpants and a long-sleeved football shirt. His hair is in a low ponytail, strands of it falling down around his face. His feet are wrapped in these thick wool socks, and he’s opening his mouth to say my name, a question already there on his lips.

“Simon, what are you—” He doesn’t get to finish, because I’m already inside, nearly bowling him over with the force of my full-body hug. I drop my bag on the floor and rush forward, throw my arms around his skinny waist and bury my face in his bony shoulder.

And I don’t cry, for once. I just cling to him and breathe him in, and he lets me. His initial shock wears off, and then his hands are coming around to rest on my lower back, thumbs rubbing circles into the muscles there.

I don’t know how long we stand there in the threshold of his flat. Eventually his arms wrap firmly around me, and his cheek comes to rest on top of my head. I’m sweaty and probably reek like blood and shitty booze from the ring, but Baz doesn’t recoil from it, from me.

“Simon?” His voice is low and worried.

I squeeze closer to him and feel my eyes sting with how hard I’m shutting them, but I don’t want to cry. Not right now, not yet. But I do start to let go of him. Because I can’t just descend upon his home out of nowhere and dive into his arms without saying a word.

I pull away and let him close his door behind me. He turns to me again, and his perfectly shaped brows have a large wrinkle between them as he looks at me. I see him take in my wrapped hands and split lip. I never took the time to take the wraps off my hands.

I’m breathing heavily and I can’t keep my eyes still. I think I’m shaking. Behind him, I see that he has his textbooks and laptop spread out on his coffee table with a mug of tea. He must have been studying.

“Simon?” He asks again. He’s worried about me.

“I—I’m sorry to bother you. I had a…er, rough night. And I panicked, and I just kind of, uh, ran here.”

His expression takes on a tad more confusion, and I kind of want the ground to swallow me whole. Why did I come here? I didn’t think. I just knew I had to go somewhere that felt _safe._ So here I am, crashing into my boyfriend’s flat in the middle of the night while he’s busy studying.

“You ran here from your fight? What happened? Are you hurt?” He takes my arm and leads me into his kitchen before I can answer. “Let me get you some ice for your lip. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I—er—no. I’m okay. The fight wasn’t bad.”

Baz dips into his freezer, and then he’s pressing a cold pack wrapped in one of his nice grey dishtowels to my bloody mouth. I look up at him and my eyes fill with tears. Because he’s just so _good_. I watch his eyes dart around my face, looking for any other signs of pain.

“What’s wrong, love? Does something else hurt?”

I pull the icepack away from my mouth and shake my head. “No, I’m all right. It’s not that. Davy was there. At the fight. He found me after, tried to…talk to me. Like it was normal.”

Baz’s expression gets dark and murderous as soon as I say my father’s name, and I love him for it. He pulls me into another hug and squeezes me tightly. “Oh, Simon, I’m so sorry. What did he say to you?”

“Just bullshit.” I mumble into his shoulder. “I told him I’d bash his face in if he ever tried to get near me or Henry again.”

I feel Baz huff a humorless laugh into my hair. “Good.” His voice gets softer than he’ll ever admit to. “Are you all right, love?”

I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours and sink into his hold, drop my head on his shoulder. “Yeah, m’okay.”

We’re quiet again for a minute or so. I just let him hold me and let any thoughts about anything but his arms around me fall away.

“So you came here after that? Why?” He asks gently.

I’m glad he can’t see my flush while we’re hugging like this. “I didn’t really think about it. I just wanted to get away somewhere safe.”

He draws back and I regret everything, but then I see his face. Both of his eyebrows are raised, and there’s a delighted grin starting to take over his face. I try to shrink away, but he doesn’t let me. He takes one of my hands are starts unwrapping my fists, not breaking eye contact with me.

“Do I make you feel safe, Simon?” He teases, but there’s an underlying happiness to his voice that makes me flush deeper.

“Shut up.” I can’t even glare at him like I want to. I duck my head in embarrassment and ignore his chuckle. He finishes unwrapping my right fist, then moves on to the left. I let him do that one too. I wash my hands and face in his kitchen sink, and then let him lead me back into his living room to sit on his sofa. He drapes one of his posh, fuzzy throw blankets on me and goes back to his kitchen, coming back a few minutes later with a cup of tea and a bowl of crisps.

“Here, eat something. I know you can’t function unless you’re stuffing your face.” He dumps the crisps in my lap and hands me the tea. It has too much milk, just how I like it.

“Thanks.”

He sits down beside me and grabs his laptop to continue his schoolwork. I watch his long fingers fly over the keyboard while I eat crisps. Salt and vinegar. It’s the only kind he ever really has, but I don’t mind. I sit with him in silence that neither of us feel the need to fill with words.

That’s the thing about Baz. He doesn’t mind not talking, which I appreciate. But I do want to say something.

I lean my head on his shoulder, draw his attention away from his work for just a moment with a low hum in my throat.

“Yes, love?”

“Thank you. For letting me in. And for…for making me feel safe. Because you do. So. Thanks.”

He sets his laptop to the side and slips an arm around my shoulder. “Of course, Simon.”

I stretch up and kiss him on the cheek, feel him smile as I do it. He must have shaved today; his cheek is perfectly smooth and soft.

It’s past eleven, far past the time I should have been home. I kiss Baz again, and then head home. Henry and Ebb are in bed when I get home, but surely enough, when I’ve showered and gotten into my bed, Henry appears in my room and climbs into bed beside me. I let him burrow into my side and close my eyes…

By morning, I’ve decided I’m going to get my shit together.

I can’t keep falling apart on Baz and everyone else in my life whenever I get upset. Baz is my boyfriend, not my therapist, and it’s not right that I’m continuing to dump my issues on him.

So I’m going to have to swallow my pride and make this fucking phone call before I lose my nerve…again.

I make sure no one else is awake as I pull up the familiar number in my contacts. I hold my breath as it rings. Just a few seconds later he picks up.

“Simon? Is that you?” Mr. Minos’ voice comes through as deep and gruff as it always is, if a little sleepy. It’s just barely eight in the morning on a Saturday—I’ve already had breakfast and gone to the gym, taking my time psyching myself up to do this. Henry and Ebb aren’t awake yet.

“Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you on a weekend. Uh…I just—I needed to ask you about something.” I cringe at the way my voice cracks with nervousness.

“It’s all right, Simon. What did you need me for? Is everything okay?” He sounds a bit more awake now, urgent.

I bite my lip and shake my head. “Everything is fine, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to know if you still had the number for that counselor. The one you tried to get me to see a while back.” It’s quiet on the other end, and I scramble to fill the silence.

“It’s just that things have been kind of, uh, intense for me lately, and I thought that maybe talking to someone would help…”

Jesus Christ, I hate asking for help. Especially to Mr. Minos. He’s the nicest, most helpful social worker me and Henry have ever had, and even though I’m an adult now he still insists that I call him if I have any problems that he could help me with. And he never made me feel weak or helpless even when I was a half-starved fourteen-year-old who fought too much and couldn’t speak in complete sentences. I feel pathetic, coming to him with this request. But of course, he’s just as supportive and understanding as always. (I still feel weird. But that’s just me, I suppose.)

“Oh! That’s very mature of you, Simon.” He sounds like I’ve just given him a gift, and I’m so glad that I’m not doing this in person, so he doesn’t see my embarrassed flush. He’s been trying to get me to see someone and sort through my problems for years. I’ve always brushed him off, insisted that I’m fine and working through things on my own. (A lie. It’s been a lie since I was eleven, really.)

“I’m proud you’re taking this step to feel better, that’s a very big deal. I’ve got the number here in my home office, just give me a moment and I’ll text it to you. Her name is Dr. Sandy, and she specializes in helping people with backgrounds similar to yours. Her rates are reasonable, and the first consultation is free, no pressure. How does that sound?”

I hear shuffling through the phone and imagine that maybe Minos is getting out of bed or pouring himself a cup of coffee. Or digging through his desk looking for a business card.

“That—that sounds good. Uh, sorry for bothering you. I really appreciate this though.”

“It’s really no problem, Simon. I’m just glad you reached out. I’ll send you the number in just a moment.”

“Thank you.” I breathe out in relief.

“Goodbye Simon. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else. Say hi to Henry for me.”

“I will. Bye.” I end the call, and a minute later I receive a text from Minos with the therapist’s phone number. I decide I should call the number during normal business hours and go about my day normally. I don’t mention anything about it to Ebb or Henry when I schedule an appointment for next week.

Minos practically cooed over me already, and I really don’t want more pats on the head from Ebb or anyone else. (Penny would probably fall to her knees and weep; she’s wanted me to go to therapy for years now.)

I work on pushing the nervousness and shame away and try to believe that things are going to be better. It’s getting easier to believe, I think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ya'll! I'm sorry it's been SO LONG since my last update. This month has gone by so fast. I'm working forty hours a week and it's been hard getting used to that again, so I've been too exhausted to write. And also writer's block has been a bitch. I don't know if I can promise super regular updates in the future, but I know that I am going to finish this fic. I have plans, I have an ending. So there's that.  
> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, it's very soft and sweet to me. :3 As always, thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments on my work. Your support is what keeps me going.


	34. Birthday Party Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Henry's tenth birthday and the gang goes all out for this good good boy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I have reemerged from my hiatus and I have more gay shit to give!  
> I apologize for being gone so long. I know it's frustrating to those of you who like this fic, and I appreciate that you've come back after all this time. I haven't felt up to writing these past month. Both my personal life and the messed-up state of the country I live in have put a huge damper on my creativity and motivation to write. But I'm back now! The words have returned to me, and I feel good enough to put them out into the world.  
> I hope all of you have been doing well. Thank you again for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the end of this story! It's almost done, I just have a couple more chapters planned out for y'all.  
> Enjoy this fluff that takes place in a universe in which coronavirus and Donald Trump do not exist!

**Penny**

For as long as I’ve known Simon and Henry, they have always celebrated their birthdays at the Petty farm with her extended family. I remember Simon being uncomfortable with it at first, but Ebb insisted. She didn’t care that they were adopted, she was going to make them a part of the family. (I thank the universe every day for Ebeneza Petty and her enormous, loving heart.)

Whenever one of their birthdays come around, they throw a little celebration with close friends at their flat, and then they take the next weekend off to go to the farm. I’ve never been there, but Simon says it’s brilliant. There’s a great big farmhouse they stay in, and tons of goats and horses and chickens to help take care of. Simon loves the food Ebb’s family makes, and Henry likes the quiet countryside. And Ebb just likes being at her ancestral home and showing off her sons.

But this year, Henry is turning ten, which is a big deal. Ebb and Simon are going all out for the party before they go to the farm. They originally wanted to throw a surprise party, but that was almost immediately out of the question, because Simon and Ebb can’t keep a secret for the life of them and cracked under a pathetic amount of pressure from Henry.

He’s a terrifyingly vigilant child, and incredibly nosy. Hiding anything from him is near impossible. Which is why the party decorations were hidden in my and Agatha’s flat, and the presents have been stowed safely away in Ebb’s work office. Baz even let Simon hide the massive sour cherry birthday cake in his refrigerator.

Ebb invited everyone she possibly could. Outside of me and Agatha, she also roped in Dev and Niall, because Dev is Baz’s cousin and Niall is not only his boyfriend but has also grown rather close to Simon for reasons I can’t quite comprehend but can appreciate. Shepard is also coming, because I made the mistake of offhandedly mentioning the party and he jumped at the opportunity to come. Naturally, Baz will also be there because he and my best friend are practically attached at the hip. Trixie and Keris are dropping by, and Mr. Minos, Simon and Henry’s old social worker, should also make an appearance.

But we couldn’t just fill Henry’s tenth birthday party with adults. And he doesn’t really have any friends from school, so Baz and I both volunteered our younger siblings to liven things up a bit. I got my Mum to bring Priya and Pip to the party, and Baz got his stepmum to bring his four siblings too, so Henry has other kids to play with.

This year, instead of having the party in Ebb’s flat, we’re having it at the public park instead, in the picnic area by the playground where there’s loads more room for everyone to have fun.

I helped Ebb and Simon hang colorful streamers and balloons all over the place. The theme is outer space, and everything from the paper napkins and plates to the wrapping paper on the gifts has stars and planets and spaceships on them. (Henry is going through a space phase.)

Henry watched us set it all up from the swings on the playground, trying to look like he wasn’t excited.

Now, as people are arriving, he simply can’t contain himself. He’s darting around, accepting gifts and thanking people for coming. He’s usually much more reserved, but this is a special day. All the people around him are people he’s comfortable with, and so he lets himself be an excited little kid on his birthday. It’s adorable.

When Baz and his family come up the lawn, Henry actually hugs Baz tightly around the middle, and then he and Baz’s little sisters run off to the playground, chattering happily.

Baz still looks a little awestruck when he and his stepmother come over to where Simon and Ebb and I are standing by the picnic tables. Baz places the medium-sized box wrapped in pretty red paper and ribbon on the table with the assortment of other presents. His stepmum is pretty and dark haired and holding a toddler who immediately starts reaching for Simon as soon as they get close. She kisses Simon on the cheek and easily passes the little boy into his arms.

“This is such a lovely party, Simon, thank you for inviting us. Mordelia has wanted to play with Henry again since Halloween, she hardly let up asking for another visit here.” Mrs. Grimm has the familiar sparkle in her eyes indicative of a woman completely and utterly charmed by the Salisbury boys. She’s looking at Simon like he’s her own son. She never had a chance, honestly. Even my mum loves Simon and Henry.

Simon looks up from cooing at the baby and grins. “I’m so glad you all made the trip here; it means a lot. I think Henry missed Mordelia too. Um, this is my best friend Penny, and my adopted mother Ebb.” He indicates the two of us on either side of him with his head, resting the little boy on his hip.

“Daphne Grimm, so good to meet you.” She aims her pretty smile at me and Ebb and shakes each of our hands in turn

Ebb smiles back at her and winks. “How about we leave your littlun with Simon and go get you a drink, dear.”

Daphne laughs and goes with Ebb over to the drink table. Baz watches them go and then turns to Simon, raising one of his severe dark brows.

“I’m not getting my brother out of your grasp today, am I?” He sighs, but he’s smiling.

Simon holds the toddler a little more protectively and smirks at Baz. “Not if I can help it.” Baz leans in close to his brother in Simon’s arms and narrows his eyes accusingly, making the little boy squeal with laughter and hide his face in Simon’s chest.

“Don’t forget who taught you how to walk, you traitorous little boyfriend thief.” He threatens.

“Ignore him, Magnus. I’m your favorite now, right?” Simon taps Magnus’ little nose with his forefinger and then tickles him to make him laugh harder. “That means yes.” Simon says confidently. Baz rolls his eyes but leans into kiss Simon’s cheek anyway. Then he looks at me, one eyebrow raised coolly.

“All right, Bunce?”

I roll my eyes and yank him by the arm into a hug. He’s much taller than me, but I squeeze him tightly enough that he winces even as his arms come around to pat me semi-awkwardly on the back.

“That was unnecessarily aggressive.” He complains when I release him, dusting off his fancy shirt.

“Where’s your boyfriend? Shouldn’t he be here as a buffer for your violent affection?”

I grin and point over to the playground, where Shep is now being mobbed by all the kids who want him to push them on the swings after he sweetly volunteered to push the smaller ones. Baz shakes his head pityingly.

“Mordelia will eat him alive.” His voice is grim as he looks at the tallest of his sisters, who has just leaped like a monkey onto Shep’s back and locked her skinny arms around his neck. I hear my boyfriend’s surprised yelp as he struggles to maintain balance. I’m not worried though; Shepard loves kids. I have no idea why. The only kid I can really tolerate is Henry. My younger siblings fall lower on that list, unfortunately.

“He’ll be fine. Probably.” Simon says. “Oh, look! Dev and Niall are here. Let’s go say hi.”

Simon continues to hold the toddler as he marches off towards the couple, leaving Baz and I to follow behind. Dev has his arm around Niall’s waist, and Niall is holding a small wrapped present.

“Oh my God, there are _so many_ kids here.” Dev says, eyes wide as he looks over to the playground crawling with children.

Niall smirks and pats Dev’s head condescendingly. “You’ll fit right in, dear.” Dev scowls as we all laugh.

“Why are you even surprised there are kids here? You’re literally at _a child’s birthday party.”_ Baz points out, causing Dev to scowl harder.

Simon grins and lifts Magnus up to sit on his shoulders so he can hug Niall. “Thanks for coming, guys. We’ve got food and drinks over there at the tables, come on over.”

Soon we find ourselves all sitting at a table in the shade. Simon keeps Magnus sitting on his lap for a little longer, but eventually lets him go to play with the other children when his mother comes over to get him. Shep manages to escape from the horde of kids on the playground and comes over to us, the lenses of his glasses smudged with greasy, child-sized fingerprints, his shirt askew on his lanky frame.

He collapses into the spot next to me when I scoot closer to Simon to make room and tries to catch his breath. I lovingly snatch the glasses off his face and begin cleaning them with the hem of my skirt.

“Oh God y’all, they _all_ wanted piggy-back rides. My back is _killing_ me.” Shep whines, leaning into me and pouting in my direction for sympathy. I snort and lay a kiss on his forehead, and his lips twitch in trying not to break through his impressive pout with a pleased grin. I give him his smudge-free glasses back.

“You brought this upon yourself, Shepard.” Baz snarks, holding his plastic cup in that annoying posh way he does. “If you give children an inch, they take a mile.”

Sometimes, I still can’t believe that Simon is dating someone so…unlike him. Baz is irritatingly composed in most of what he does and has a wardrobe that consists of more than tee shirts and trackie bottoms. But they fit together so well. Baz makes Simon want to try new things, and Simon rounds out Baz’s sharper edges. Watching them be together is baffling, incredibly charming, and disgusting simultaneously.

“But they all looked up at me with their little kid eyes! I couldn’t say no to all those squishy faces!”

Niall flaps his hands excitedly to get our attention, grinning wildly. “Speaking of kids, holy shit you guys, I have to tell you something amazing!” He says, his grin turning a little sly when he looks at Dev sitting beside him.

“Niall, please not this again.” Dev puts his head in his hands and groans when Niall ignores him and gives another maniacal smile.

“Okay, so listen to this. Yesterday we had dinner with his parents and get this: Dev’s dad is a farmer.” He says it like this is some miraculous discovery, and we all just stare at him blankly, but his smile doesn’t falter. He begins pulling his phone out of his pocket, and Dev groans again, more miserably, burying his face further in his hands.

“Which, like, on its own is not a big deal. But…wait,” he unlocks his phone and taps on it excitedly for a moment, then holds it to his chest before he shows us the screen. After a dramatic pause for effect, he turns the screen outwards to show the group.

On it is a picture of a framed photograph of what looks to be a toddler version of Dev, sitting on a decorative bale of hay and wearing a straw hat and dungarees. The background is a comically tacky backdrop of a blue sky filled with puffy white clouds, and tiny Dev looks adorably sullen to have his picture taken in this manner.

Simon says, “Aww” as Baz cackles loudly and snatches the phone from Niall to get a better look. We all burst into hilarious laughter.

“Crowley, I almost forgot about this picture! A classic, truly.”

“They should have had him hold a little pitchfork, that would have been great.” Shep says.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing.” Niall says seriously as Baz hands him back his phone.

Dev lifts his red face from his hands and glares at us all. “I was like, three years old! I had no choice! All the Grimms are farmers, okay? It’s tradition.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Simon swivels his head excitedly towards Baz. “Your family are farmers? Does that mean there’s a little farmer Baz picture somewhere?”

“Oh my God, please let that be true. I ask for so little in this life.” I clasp my hands together and look up at the sky as if in prayer.

Baz rolls his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint, but no. My mother had taste and protected me from the garish Grimm family traditions.” He aims his smug smirk at Dev, ribbing him good-naturedly.

Dev laughs and points an accusatory finger at Baz. “Don’t pretend the Pitches aren’t Addams Family wannabees with that Gothic mansion in Hampshire.”

“It’s a Victorian mansion, you peasant.” Baz sniffs and turns his face away with his nose up in the air.

“Are all you rich blokes like this?” Niall groans.

“No,” Dev says at the same time Baz says “Yes.”

Simon laughs so hard he snorts, and Baz looks at him like he’s disgusted, but also like he loves him.

It’s going to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! Hope you liked it. More chapters soon <3


	35. Birthday Party Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more birthday shenanigans, and a whole lot more fluff.

**Baz**

It’s after lunch at Henry’s birthday party and I’m watching my boyfriend try to light ten candles on a gigantic cake while he’s literally being swarmed by children all singing “Happy Birthday” horribly off key.

Henry is of course by his side, his eyes still as big as they were when he first laid eyes on the culinary masterpiece a few minutes ago. He keeps looking between the cake, mouth agape, and his older brother with an amazed spark in his eyes like he can’t believe Simon made such a thing for him. He’s holding on to the hem of Simon’s shirt with this adorable reverence of a younger sibling who is hugely impressed.

The cake really is fantastic. Simon worked for three days on it, wanting to get every detail right. It’s a massive, three-tiered sour cherry cake of his own creation. Light and fluffy cake with dried cherries and that amazing sour cherry preserve filling, iced with this gorgeous red and orange and white icing. It looks just as good as I know it tastes. (Simon made the cake in my kitchen, of course I got to taste test.)

Remarkably, Simon has made the cake look like Jupiter. The icing is blended together to look like the colorful atmosphere of the planet, and in the middle, he’s carved out this circular crater shape filled with red icing and candied cherries to look like the Big Red Spot.

I watched Simon go through the process of making it, but I’m still taken aback by how incredible it is. Ebb and Penny and a few other people have taken ample pictures of it, and any time someone compliments Simon on his hard work, he turns this fetching shade of pink and stutters through a thank you.

He’s gotten better at accepting compliments. He’s starting to become more open to the idea of being good at something, at his talents being worth praise. He started therapy a short while ago, and already he seems to hold his shoulders like they’re lighter. Bunce and I literally dragged him out for celebratory drinks when he told us, and he looked like he wanted to die of embarrassment for most of it, but I could tell he was happy. That he was hopeful.

Now, Simon has finally lit all the candles—it takes him two rounds of the Happy Birthday song to do it. He steps back to give Henry room to blow them out, leaning down to kiss his brother’s curls as he does. Henry throws his arms around Simon’s waist, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them, Simon’s broader form enveloping Henry’s littler one. Henry buries his face into Simon’s shoulder and Simon kisses his head again, and how much they love each other is so palpable it almost hurts.

Mordelia, standing by my side, kind of leans into me as the final notes of the endearingly off-key singing fade away. She glances up at me just for a moment, and I put my arm around her small shoulders. She doesn’t slap my hand away in disgust or duck away from my casual embrace, so I know she’s feeling possibly just as soft as I am at the moment. She’ll deny it later.

Then Henry turns around and determinedly blows out the candles. The cake is so big that the task requires him to lean around it to get all of them.

From there, the party descends into cake-driven chaos. Simon, with Penny and Ebb’s help, cuts and serves the cake and plates with generous slices get passed around to whoever wants them. I don’t think anyone passes up the cake.

Once everyone has cake, Simon finds me and hands over a generous slice on an astronaut-themed paper plate. He has his own slice that he devours in under a minute. After he’s decimated that, he lets me get approximately three more bites of my piece of cake before he turns those big blue eyes on me pleadingly. I roll my eyes and give it to him, and his whole face lights up.

I don’t consider myself to be an entirely kind man, but depriving Simon Salisbury of cake is truly cruel. (And he feeds me bites of it anyway, which is a nice perk.)

“You all did a great job with this party. Especially you. The cake is divine.” I tell Simon. His mouth is full of cake, so I get the pleasure of seeing him struggle to chew and swallow what’s in his mouth while he blushes and attempts to reply to me. (He has no manners, and I’ve given up even trying to teach him some.)

“Thank you. He deserves it, you know?” Simon says, fondly looking over to the table where Henry is sitting, eating cake with my siblings and Bunce’s. Penelope’s whole family is here. I’ve met her parents now, and the experience explains so much. Professor Mitali Bunce is obviously where Penelope gets her fierce intelligence from, and all of her young siblings seem awfully clever too. I also sense intelligence from her father, a pasty short man with glasses (every single one of them wears glasses, apparently) but he didn’t talk much aside from a mumbled greeting.

“He does.” I agree, slipping an arm around Simon’s waist. “He’s a really great kid.”

“Yeah. He is.”

**Simon**

After everyone has cake, the kids are full of sugary energy, so Henry tracks down the football that we brought and declares that it’s time to play “a serious game of football with proper teams and everything.”

There’s not much of the cake left, but Henry demands we pack up and take home what’s left so he can eat it for breakfast tomorrow. (I’d argue with him that you can’t eat cake for breakfast if I myself haven’t done it multiple times before.)

We set up two little plastic goals at either end of the stretch of field we staked our claim on for the party, and both Henry and Mordelia declare themselves team captains at the same time. They divvy up the kids pretty easily; Mordelia gets her sisters, which she grumbles about, and Henry gets Priya and Pip, who I know for a fact have never played football in their lives. (The Bunces are more into studying than sports. The only athletic one of the bunch is Premal, Penny’s older brother who plays rugby and is a bit of a dick.) Baz tells me that Ophelia and Acantha also aren’t very good players, so it balances out.

It’s when Mordelia and Henry are trying to decide which teams get the adults that some tension starts to rise.

“I should get Basil; he’s my brother.” Mordelia says, trying to tug my boyfriend by the arm onto the side her team is standing on. Baz doesn’t let her move him but looks amused and unbearably smug while the two pint-sized team captains fight over who gets to have him on their team.

“That’s not fair! He’s really good, he plays at uni.” Henry tugs on Baz’s other arm, putting all his weight into trying to get Baz to budge to his side.

They play tug-of-war with him for a moment, and Baz looks pleadingly over at me.

“Alright, alright. Enough of that. You’re going to rip him in half.” I swat their hands away from Baz and put my arm around Henry. “How about _I_ be on your team instead, and we let Mordelia have Baz?”

Henry crosses his arms over his chest as Mordelia whoops, triumphant. “Simon, you’re awful at football. It’s not a fair exchange.”

I ignore Baz’s snort of laughter and roll my eyes. “Rude, but fair. Then let’s say you get Agatha, too.”

His eyes light up in glee. “Oh! Agatha plays lacrosse! She’d be good. Agatha, be on my team, please? You run so much faster than Simon.”

Agatha had wanted to abstain from the game, but at the sight of Henry clasping his hands in front of himself pleadingly and looking up at her with his big blue eyes, she sighs and comes over to stand with us, putting her drink down.

“One game.” She says firmly, ruffling Henry’s hair fondly. “Only because I know Simon is rubbish at football. I can’t let you lose on your birthday.”

“Oi!” I gape at her in betrayal while Baz and Henry crack up laughing.

Agatha shrugs as she puts her long blond hair up into a bun. “Just speaking the truth, Si.”

Shepard, Dev, and Niall end up on Mordelia and Baz’s team, and we get Trixie, and Keris and Ebb, who joined in to balance out the teams. Penny stays seated with her mum and dad, telling us that she’ll keep score of the points, when I know she just wants to drink lemonade and talk to her dad about his research that’s too smart and complicated for me to figure out.

Henry makes sure his shoes are properly tied and Shep calls it soccer as much as he can, just to see everyone roll their eyes.

As we get in position to play, Baz flips his hair over his shoulder prettily and meets my eyes with a cocky smirk that looks so good he must practice it in the mirror. “Do be mindful of your hopes for victory, love. Prepare to lose instead. I’ll try not to leave you too far behind in the dust.”

A spark of competitiveness flashes up my spine despite my bruised ego and I grin back at him, all teeth. “Same to you, _darling_.”

When the ball drops, Baz is still flustered enough that he’s not as quick as usual and Agatha manages to steal the ball away from his team. She’s a flash of light gold and pink as she races away with the ball. She’s fast, and a lot of her lacrosse skills translate over to football.

Baz and Mordelia chase after her, trying to steal the ball, Henry right next to them, hoping for a pass.

Really, the only people playing seriously are Henry, Mordelia, Baz, Agatha, and me. Shepard isn’t very good, so he just kind of jogs way behind whoever has the ball, getting in everyone’s way. I see Ebb and Baz’s twin sisters on the other side of the pitch—Ebb is supposed to be tending goal, at least kind of standing in front of it—, picking dandelions and wishing on them. Penny’s siblings are just walking aimlessly around on the grass.

Trixie and Keris are chatting with Dev and Niall— one of them is supposed to be the other team’s goalie, but neither of them are paying attention and are standing just next to the goal, so when Agatha manages to kick the ball to Henry and he sends it flying toward the goal, it goes right in.

“Yes!” Henry throws his arms up in the air and Agatha high fives both of his hands.

“Dev! You’re supposed to be the goalie, you numpty!” Mordelia stomps over to her cousin and grabs his elbow to roughly yank him back to his position in front of the goal. Niall teasingly waves goodbye to his boyfriend as he’s pulled away by a ten-year-old.

“You played football for years! Did it all just fall out of your head when you stopped?” She demands, glaring up at Dev, who looks appropriately shamed and fairly terrified. Mordelia is a frightening little thing, wearing mismatched Mary Janes and a strange, ancient-looking beaded shawl that almost drags along on the ground behind her. Her dark hair is an unbrushed mass around her head. There’s a little sparkly barrette desperately trying to keep the hair out of her eyes, but it’s not working.

Dev gets the ball out of the little goal and sheepishly gives it to Mordelia. “Sorry. I’ll stay right here next time, I promise.”

She rolls her eyes, and we all get ready to go again, and this time Baz isn’t distracted and easily gets the ball, streaking out ahead of everyone towards our goal. Henry and Agatha race after him, and I’m struggling to catch up—I ate too much cake.

Damn Baz and his long legs. For every single stride he makes I have to make three. He’s tall as hell, but he’s also fast, and it’s just not fair. I know for a fact Henry ate more cake than I did, but he’s small and young and manages to steal the ball away from Baz.

Unfortunately I’m the person he has to pass to next so he doesn’t lose the ball to Mordelia, and I’m absolute shit at controlling the ball.

I keep it in check for a few yards before I risk a glance over my shoulder, and—shit.

Baz is right behind me, eyes locked on me like a predator on the hunt, and my breath catches in my throat because it’s dead sexy and also terrifying. My fight or flight reflex kicks in and for once, I choose flight. But the execution doesn’t go well.

I’m so busy casting panicked looks over my shoulder at Baz, who is basically breathing down my neck, that I don’t pay attention to my footwork or where the bloody ball is in relation, and I trip over the ball and my own two feet and faceplant into the grass with a yelp.

Baz, the leggy bastard, can’t stop his momentum in time to avoid falling too. He trips on my heels and lands right on top of me with a curse, and I groan as he knocks the wind out of me. His pointy elbow jabs into my back.

“Jesus Christ, Simon. You really are awful at football.” Baz sighs, his breath tickling my ear, making goosebumps rise on my neck. I can feel the shape of his chest and his heartbeat where he’s sprawled on top of me, arms now on either side of my head as he props himself up to roll off me. I’m blushing like I’m paid to do it.

Baz shifts off me and gets to his feet. I roll lazily onto my back and stare up at him quite literally looking down his nose at me. He’s so unfairly beautiful, framed by the weak November sun barely peeking though the clouds.

He extends a hand down to me and his smile is too sweet to be one of his usual smirks. “Come on, love.”

I take his hand, but I make no movement to actually stand up. Instead, I pull him down on top of me again. He wasn’t expecting it, so he tumbles over fairly easily, pointy chin landing on my shoulder. He gives a surprised squawk of protest as he falls, and I laugh.

“For fuck’s sake—” he growls, arms propped up by my head again to stabilize himself, except this time I’m facing the proper way to enjoy it. I surge upwards and kiss him while he tries to berate me and feel him smile against my lips. My hands go to his hair, and he tastes like sugar and cherries.

We get approximately two seconds of this kiss before I hear Mordelia pretend to gag a few meters away from us. I think I hear Niall wolf whistle from wherever he is. Baz stops kissing me for a second to glare in the direction of his sister, stealing another kiss on my cheek to spite her.

“Be gay later, football now.” Henry says, retrieving the ball from where it is at Baz and I’s feet.

“Can I be a little gay now, then play football, then be gay again later?” Baz snarks, but gets off of me again. This time when he offers his hand I actually stand up, grinning sheepishly at my little brother. Baz doesn’t let go of my hand once I’m standing, and I squeeze his appreciatively. He squeezes back.

Henry’s trying his hardest to scowl disapprovingly at us, but his cheeks are twitching uncontrollably. Holding the football under one arm, he brings his other hand up to his chin, pretending to think.

“Just a little gay now, you said?”

Baz holds up two fingers to indicate the miniscule amount of gay he’s talking about. “Just a little gay now, then football. Then a whole lot of gayness after.”

“That’s awfully gay, Basil, I don’t know.” Trixie says, her and Keris coming up to stand beside Henry.

“You’re literally holding hands with you girlfriend right now.” I point out, and Trixie holds eye contact with me as she brings Keris’ hand up to her lips to lay a gentle kiss on the back of it in a vaguely threatening manner.

“Yeah, and?”

I wisely don’t say anything else and the group bursts into laughter.

The rest of the party and the day passes in warm smiles and happy laughter and fun. Later, as I’m tucking Henry into bed for the night, he grabs my sleeve and tells me it was the best birthday he’s ever had.

“And the cake was so amazing, Simon. Thank you.” He mumbles, eyes already sliding shut. He thoroughly tired himself out today.

I kiss his forehead and ruffle his hair, and I think he’s already falling asleep. “Before you go to sleep, I’ve got one more present for you, Henry.”

He forces his eyes open and sits up a little, yawning. “What is it?”

“Hold on a second.” I tell him. I dart out of the room and take the gift out of my closet where I was hiding it. When I come back, I place it in Henry’s lap.

It’s a small, soft bundle wrapped sloppily in tissue paper, because I’m bad at wrapping gifts of any kind.

Henry carefully unwraps it, because that’s the kind of kid he is, and gasps when he unfolds the fabric and sees what it is.

“Is this…was this hers? Mum’s?” He lifts the large tee shirt up like it’s made of fine silk instead of old, faded cotton, worn soft and stretchy by time. It’s one of Mum’s old rugby team shirts. Not a jersey for matches, but a simple tee shirt for training. It’s white and has the name Salisbury printed on the back in bold letters that Henry traces his fingers over reverently.

“It was. She used to wear it all the time. I thought you might like it. I know you don’t remember her, but she loved you, Henry. Before she even knew you, she loved you. And she’d love you now, too. I promise.”

He buries his face into the shirt and I hear him sob, and I worry for a terrible moment that I’ve messed up somehow, but then he’s throwing himself into my arms and crying into my shoulder, holding onto me tightly.

“Thank—thank you. I’ve never had anything that was hers. You want me to have this? You’re sure?” He leans back and holds the shirt to his chest like it’s his most prized possession.

“I’m sure.”

I tuck him back into his bed properly and he clutches the shirt like a security blanket.

“Thank you.” He says again, and I kiss his cheek and turn off his lamp.

“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Henry. I love you.”

He mumbles the words back to me, already drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, the response I got from you all when I came back to this fic has been so sweet and inspiring! I got so many kind comments from ya'll and it means a lot. I'm so happy you guys like this story so much! Hope you enjoy this fluff, you deserve it. I'll be coming out with some more chapters soon! <3


	36. Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for *air horn noise* non-explicit consensual sexy times and feelings lets gooooo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAUTION: NON-EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER  
> I don't get too graphic, but it feels more than just implied to me? Idk, read at your own risk.

**Baz**

The first time Simon stays the night in my flat without being drunk out of his mind is a few weeks after Henry’s tenth birthday party. We planned it this time, and he shows up at my door right at the agreed upon time—seven pm—with a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder and a flush in his cheeks as he looks up at me with a nervous grin.

There’s no need for him to be nervous. It’s just that this is the first time he’ll be staying the night totally aware of where he is and what he’s doing. We’ve been dating for almost three months now, and it’s been wonderful, but it’s also been building to something we haven’t done yet, and I think it’s going to happen tonight. The waiting we’ve done to get to this step is not something I’ve done in my few other relationships, but I don’t mind it really. Simon has been going through a lot lately, and aside from that, I think I’m the first serious partner he’s had. It’s the same on my end, as well. My other relationships never lasted long, the passion burned out fast. They didn’t stick around long enough to even meet Fiona, much less my parents.

Simon is different. Being with him feels like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. It’s encouraged me to be patient enough to wait for this step, makes me want to keep him around for as long as he’ll let me.

I want to bring him home with me to meet my _father_. (I’ve never dared bring a man home to meet Malcom. I’m still terrified of it, honestly. But Simon makes me want to try. I believe in him, believe that my father could like him if given the chance.)

My mouth is dry as I take all of him in. His hair is growing out. It’s just the slightest bit curly now, and I really need to talk to him about proper curl management, so they don’t get dry and frizzy. It’s darker than Henry’s, more of a bronze or a chestnut than a dirty blond. He’s in trackies and a sweatshirt that looks suspiciously like one of mine, but I don’t mention it. He looks like everything I’ve ever wanted. Pink lips and freckles and moles and tawny skin.

It’s all I can do not to yank him into my flat by the neck of what I’m one hundred percent sure is a football sweatshirt with my name on the back. I must have left it at his flat; or he nicked it from here. I don’t care, he can bloody have it. I’ll never get tired of him wearing my clothes.

I invite him in courteously, trying not to give away that I want him so badly I would get on my knees and beg, if he asked. We’ve been taking it slow, and I’m okay with that. The last thing I want to do is pressure him. It’s just that he’s the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen and I’ve wanted him since the first moment I laid eyes on him, and he’s here on the terms that he’ll stay the night, in my bed, and that’s not really new but _this_ is. He’s looking at me, smiling like he’s made a promise he’s about to fufill.

So maybe I’m nervous too.

I take his coat and show him where to put his bag in my room. I’m a little stiff, and not in the good way, and he’s just as bad. He’s still blushing when we come back out into the living room. He took one look in the direction of my bed and turned a bright red, and then started stuttering about ordering dinner.

“Or I could—um, cook, if you’d rather that. I don’t know what ingredients you have though, so I might need to run to the shop. Or I could just pick us up a curry, that might be better—”

I take a page out of his book and stop his rambling by kissing him. It’s just a soft, chaste little peck against his mouth, and it seems to ground him for a moment. He blinks and melts into me, arms coming around my waist to pull me closer. His thumbs trace over my hipbones ever so slightly, and my heart rate picks up considerably.

He kisses me again, searchingly, all slow with tongue and teeth and hands running up and down my sides. It lasts for a long time before either of us pull back. He leans into me more and presses our foreheads together.

“God, that’s good.” He breathes against my mouth, his voice low and gravelly and _wanting_ in the way I’ve only heard a handful of times.

“It’s always good, love.” I admit. I can’t play coy with him, not when he’s looking at me like he is.

He peeks up at me through his lashes and chews on his bottom lip for a moment. It’s all I can focus on until he speaks again.

“Are you hungry right now, Baz?” He asks benignly.

I blink at him. “Well, not really, no. Do you want to call for takeout—mmphf—”

Simon knocks me off balance and we fall onto my sofa, Simon’s thighs on either side of my waist, his hands in my hair, his lips on mine, moving feverishly.

“I thought,” I manage to say into his hair while he ducks his head to mouth at my throat. “You were—ah, Simon, fuck—” He nips at my Adam’s apple and I suck in a shocked breath.

I throw my head back and give him more room to work. Like always, he’s overwhelming me fast, coming at me with all of his might. I let him suck and lick and nibble on my neck and try to get my bearings.

“I thought you were hungry?” I almost laugh, but he takes my earlobe between his teeth and it chokes off into a moan I can’t contain. He’s sitting on my thighs and he’s got most of my hair in one fist and the other is cradling my jaw.

When he shakes his head, I feel his hair tickle my neck, his lips curl into a smile against my ear. “Not for food, darling.”

And then he rolls his hips _down_ , and I lose all coherent thought I managed to hold onto when he started this.

“ _Fuck_ —”

Simon pulls his head back to look at me properly, and I curse again at the sight of him. Flushed more than ever now, pupils blown wide. He’s smiling at me all lopsided and adorable, like he’s not literally sitting on my lap right now and has no doubt left bruises on my neck with his mouth.

“Well, yeah. If you want to be blunt about it.” He loses his flirtatious energy for a second and looks at me seriously, unkempt brows furrowed in concern.

“If you want to? I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just thought…” He’s red all the way to his ears now, avoiding my eyes. “We don’t have to, um, tonight, but I just thought…maybe…”

He’s losing his nerve. He starts to move off me, mumbling an apology, but I don’t let him leave. My hands fly to his waist and keep him from moving.

“No! I mean—yes—you’re fine, Simon. You can have this, if you want it.” I catch his eye and feel this intense vulnerability all the sudden, like I’ve just shed a protective layer.

“You can have…me.”

He stares into my eyes for a long moment, and I know we both know I’m not just talking about sex. His expression goes soft, and his lips curve up into a shy smile. He ducks his head and his nose bumps against mine gently.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I feel his lips press against my cheek for a few seconds. He takes a deep breath. I do too.

I gently squeeze his waist. “We can take it slow, love. We don’t have to do anything big tonight—”

Simon brings his face away from mine and shakes his head vigorously. For a second, I’m almost disappointed, thinking he’s saying no, he’s not ready.

But then he says, “No, I want to. You can have me, too. If you want.”

“I do.” I bring my hands up from his waist and touch the small of his back, drawing him closer to me. He smells like cinnamon and popcorn, all the rich sweetness that exists in the world. “I really, really do.”

I’m leaning in for another kiss when Simon suddenly stands up, and then he’s offering me his hand, trying to lift one of his brows flirtatiously and failing, because he can’t do that without lifting both like a numpty.

“Come on then. We’ve waited long enough.”

I take his hand and follow him to my bedroom.

We’re awkward and fumbling and warm, and it’s the best. Simon pushes and pulls and gives and takes and I do the same to him. The heat and intensity of him—of his heartbeat fluttering in his neck, his tawny, freckled skin against my own, his hot breath mixing with mine when he kisses me—is scorching in the best kind of way.

Sex with Simon is just like I imagined it would be: overwhelming and deliberately gentle at first, slowly giving way to perfectly rough and sweet and unyielding pleasure. But more than that; it’s tender in a way I could never have dreamed of. He’s thoughtful and careful and generous, then wild and brash and fiery.

I get lost in the way the muscles in his shoulders and back flex when he moves, how his teeth gnaw at his bottom lip when he’s hyper-focused, how his smile still makes my heart skip a beat, even in the middle of this messy, occasionally clumsy, absolutely wonderful sex.

His skill with words only declines as we get into it. Eventually, he’s just communicating with these sexy, almost animalistic grunts and moans and the occasional curse or short encouragement. And my name. He says my name in a hundred different ways, and each one is permanently burned into my memory.

Later, when it’s done and we’ve spent ourselves for the moment—we’re both lying on our backs beside one another, coming down and trying to catch our breaths—Simon looks over at me and his hand finds mine on the bed. He lifts it up to his face and lays a kiss on my knuckles. Blinks his stubby eyelashes at me and smiles softly, looking at me like I’m everything in the world to him.

“That was fucking brilliant, Baz. You wanna get something to eat and then go again?”

I’m so very irrevocably in love with this ridiculous man.

**Simon**

I wake up later than I usually do, but I still wake up before Baz. I don’t get out of bed though.

Dim morning light is coming in through his window, and I can hear the rain outside hitting the glass. According to the digital clock on Baz’s bedside table, it’s just past nine in the morning.

Baz is sleeping deeply, curled around me on his side. His legs are tangled in mine, and his head is tucked close by my neck and shoulder, messy black hair splayed out around his head. One of his arms is thrown over my waist possessively, and the other is tucked up under his pillow. I’m pretty sure he’s naked under the thick comforter he’s wrapped around himself—I don’t remember if he even put on pants last night before we finally went to sleep. I certainly didn’t.

I kicked my way out of most of the blankets when I got too warm in the few hours we spent actually sleeping last night, but part of the sheet is covering my bottom half, keeping me somewhat decent.

They way we’re positioned, I can’t get either of my arms around Baz without waking him, so I’ve settled for lazily stroking his hair with one hand and tracing patterns on his shoulder with the other.

I don’t mean to be a creeper, but I’ve just been watching him since I woke up. How his pouty lips are still just slightly downturned, even in his sleep, and the way his hair falls in a wave when it’s loose like this.

Baz is easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and last night proves it. His gorgeous grey eyes aren’t even open to fluster me with their sharpness, but my cheeks still flush with heat when I recall last night.

Somehow, I didn’t mess it up completely. Baz had to talk me through a couple parts I was unsure about, but nothing went wrong. We didn’t hurt each other or anything. In fact, it felt amazing. And based on the noises Baz was making last night—Jesus Christ, the sounds this man made will forever be etched into my memory—it was good for him too.

Baz is just as infuriatingly graceful having sex as he is doing anything else. I pulled and mussed up his hair at many points last night, and he still managed to look incredible. His perfect face twisting up with pleasure is on the list of the best things I’ve seen in my life. He looks unfairly good sweaty and exhausted, and he looks unfairly good now, snoring softly next to me.

He obviously knows more about having sex with other blokes than I do, but he was patient and careful with me, and my heart swells with affection just looking at his sleeping face.

I’m struck with this wonderful feeling of complete content, lying here next to my boyfriend that I shagged several times last night. I’d like to get up and go make him some breakfast, but his long limbs are all tangled up with mine and he smells like sweat and _Baz,_ and his red-gold skin contrasts so nicely with his cream-colored sheets, and I want to stay here in this moment for a while longer.

I close my eyes and drift into a light doze until I have to wake up to piss around ten thirty. I gently lift Baz’s arm off me and slip my legs away from his. Baz’s legs are fucking fantastic, long and soft and sculpted with muscle from playing football. Last night I felt them wrapped around my waist, hoisted over my shoulders. And don’t get me started about his arse. Christ.

Baz mumbles a little in his sleep and turns over onto his stomach but doesn’t otherwise stir. I get a clean pair of pants out from my overnight bag and pull on Baz’s football hoodie before slipping out of his bedroom.

I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth and start making coffee for Baz while I’m up. He has a fancy coffee press machine like Miss Possibelf has at The Thrifty Tea Rose, and I’ve become very familiar with how he likes his coffee. Expensive beans and lots of sugar. I don’t have the stuff to make that pumpkin drink he likes, but this will do.

Steaming mug of coffee in hand, I go back into his room and set it on his bedside table. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and rub his bare back, trying to gently coax him awake.

“Baz, darling. I made you coffee. How are you feeling?” I murmur, dropping a kiss on his temple. I see one of his flawless black brows twitch, and his eyes scrunch shut before slowly opening, blinking a few times to adjust to the soft light from the window. I know better than to turn the lights on when trying to wake him up. That’s a good way to get a pillow launched at my head.

He opens his eyes and looks at me but doesn’t turn over to make a move to sit up.

“M’okay.” He says, voice quiet and kind of gravelly. “You?”

I smile at him and brush a few strands of his hair away from his face. “I’m great. You hungry? I was thinking crepes.”

“Mmm.” He shuts his eyes again and presses his smile into his pillow. “You’re a genius, Simon Salisbury. Wake me when they’re ready?”

“‘Course.” I can’t help it—I lean down again and kiss him on his cheek this time. “Love you.”

His eyes shoot open and his head jolts up, but I’m already standing, panicking slightly. I hadn’t meant to say it then—it just slipped out. But I meant it, and I don’t regret saying it. I do love him. Wholeheartedly, with everything that I am.

“Simon—”

I bend again and kiss him on the lips now, slowly pressing his head back down onto the pillow. “Shh, Baz. Go back to sleep. I’ll come get you in a bit.”

He kisses me back and lets me go, eyes falling shut a moment later.

It’s later, when we’re eating the strawberry and chocolate crepes I whipped up in his kitchen, that he responds to my accidental confession. He kisses a bit of chocolate and powdered sugar off the edge of my mouth and whispers in my ear.

“I love you too, Simon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I jumped the gun on this fic. Posted my Halloween content a loooong ass time ago. Now, when it's actually Halloween time, I got nothing in that department for ya. So I gave you non-explicit sexual content instead! Sorry if it's awkward. Not great at the sex-writing, have mercy on this asexual little writer.  
> Thanks as always for reading and commenting and leaving kudos. Ya'll make me keep going! Happy Halloween!


	37. Don't Want A Lot For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmastime! Baz and Simon prepare for the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES, the title is from "All I Want for Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey, I couldn't help myself. Enjoy the fluff, more coming soon.

**Baz**

Simon is gripping Bunce’s American boyfriend’s shoulders, speaking to him intensely like some kind of coach. Heavy eye contact, purposeful enunciation. I almost feel bad for Shepard, but knowing him, he’s probably just amused.

“Whatever you do, _never_ close a book that’s been left open. Don’t move it at all. Penny’s mum hates that. And don’t talk to Premal about politics, he’ll get all riled up.”

“Maybe don’t talk to any of my siblings about literally anything.” Penny adds, sipping her tea as we all sit and enjoy a cold, dreary mid-December afternoon in The Thrifty Tea Rose at the large table closest to the counter that Bunce and I always claim when we come here to study and hang out with Simon while he works.

“Yeah, they’ll tear you apart, mate.” Simon says sympathetically.

Bunce is taking her quirky boyfriend home with her for Christmas soon, as he’s not returning to America for the holiday. Shep is from Omaha, Nebraska, and he talks about it like it’s the only place on Earth the sun shines, but he’s just as excited to spend Christmas with the Bunce’s.

Simon is spending his breaktime to sit Shepard down and give him advice on navigating the Bunce household. Penny has four other siblings and two parents, and they’ll all be gathering at the family home in Hounslow. According to Simon, the house is very crowded, and the Bunces are all as sharp-witted and unafraid to speak their minds as Penny is, except for her father who tends to be quieter and more reserved.

Shepard nods, looking a little overwhelmed but mostly determined as Simon releases his grip on his shoulders and returns to his post on the other side of the counter.

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I’ve already met most of them.” He says.

“Yes, but, it’s different when we’re all under the same roof and somebody’s stuck sleeping on the air mattress in the living room so my grandmother gets a bed.” Penny reminds him pointedly.

“It can get pretty rough, Shep. Believe me, I’ve spent many a Boxing Day at the Bunce’s house.” Simon shakes his head slowly and stares off into nothing, as if remembering some long-ago horror.

Shep shrugs and sips the fruity iced tea he ordered. “I think I’ll be alright. Christmas back home in Omaha was always crowded in my house. I’ve got a big family; I know how to navigate that kind of chaos.”

Simon gives Shepard a nod and a, “Good luck, mate,” Before he has to leave our conversation to attend to another patron who has entered the shop and come up to the counter to place an order.

I watch his easy smile and happy exchange with the stranger and find myself smiling in turn.

We’ve fallen into a lovely, blissful rhythm, Simon and I. We make time for seeing one another and going out on dates when we can during the week, and some Friday or Saturday nights he’ll stay over at my flat. He’ll cook us dinner in my kitchen and in return I’ll let him pick one of those terrible action movies he’s obsessed with to watch after we eat. And depending on the mood, these nights either end with peaceful, comfortable slumber wrapped in each other’s arms, or, more often than not, more… _active_ activities in my bed. Or on the sofa. Or up against the wall or on the kitchen counter. (Simon’s not terribly picky about the location as long as he gets what he wants. And I’m usually very inclined to let him have his way.)

And honestly, I don’t know which outcome to these amazing nights I prefer. Because I wake up to Simon either way. Whether we’ve had sex or not seems inconsequential when I still get to fall asleep and wake up in his embrace. See him rub the sleep out of his blue eyes and grimace playfully at his morning breath when he kisses me sleepily. But the sex being so incredible doesn’t hurt at all.

We say “I love you” all the time now, but it never stops being profound and stunning to hear him say it, to see him smile and flush when I say it back.

I don’t know how I got so lucky to meet and fall in love and be loved in return by such an exquisite man, but I’d get on my knees and thank every star in the sky, praise every machination of fate that brought him to me if I could. (I do not give Dev credit for our getting together, but he insists he should take full credit.)

Simon and I unfortunately haven’t gotten a chance to spend any quality time together for the past two weeks. I’m in the middle of final exams, and my studies have forced me to spend less time with Simon, but he still lights up whenever we manage to see each other between my classes and his shifts, and he’ll lend me his coat without a second thought if I’m cold and sends me goodnight and good morning texts every day. Our only in-person interactions these days have been stolen moments at his work, when me and Bunce and occasionally Shep or Agatha set up at the usual table and spread out various books and notes to study for exams.

Simon supplies us with tea and coffee and delicious baked goods while we quiz each other and do our revising. He’s lovely this time of year, wearing delightfully fitted chunky knit sweaters he always rolls up to his elbows because he runs hot, and smelling of warm fresh bread and baked apples. The sight of him can easily draw my eyes away from my work, and it’s so tempting to just reach out and grab him when he refills my drink or winks at me from across the room while he waters plants.

I want him all the time, no matter if it’s in my arms or in my bed, or simply just his hand in mine. I love him and being with him feels like home in a different way than even my childhood home back in Hampshire does. Being with Simon feels like I’m crossing the threshold of something new and thrilling and also comforting and familiar. He’s a home I haven’t completely learned yet. He is a warm hearth where I am only just beginning to settle.

We have plans for Christmas too.

He’s going to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with his family, as am I, and the day after Boxing Day until New Year’s Eve, he’s going to come and stay in Hampshire with me and my parents and the children. He’s going to eat disgusting quantities of Vera’s cooking and drink mulled wine with Daphne and delight my sisters and brother with his presence.

I don’t know how Malcom will react. I’ve never brought anyone home before. And I know Simon isn’t what my father wants for me, simply because Simon is a man.

We haven’t really spoken about my relationship status. Aside from a handful of disapproving comments and the one shitty lecture, Malcom has never really discussed my sexuality with me. He’s painfully traditional, and has agonized over “the Pitch bloodline ending with me,” but Daphne assured me that Simon is welcome in the house and that she and the children have only been saying good things about him to my father.

I have to have hope that my father will see how truly, unbelievably happy Simon makes me. That he’ll understand that my liking men isn’t a fluke, that it hasn’t been since I came out to him when I was sixteen.

And I have to believe that Simon, by just being his wonderful, ridiculously charming self, will win my stone-faced father over.

**Simon**

Christmas comes with a startling confession from Henry.

“I know Father Christmas isn’t real. You and Ebb don’t have to pretend.”

I freeze at the stove where I’m making hot cocoa with real milk and cocoa powder and turn around slowly, blood rushing in my ears. It’s Christmas Eve, an hour or so after dinner, and I’ve got gingerbread baking in the oven, Ebb has the Christmas music station playing on the radio, and Henry just dropped this on me with no context. In the living room, I can see Ebb also looking shocked where she’s fiddling with our stockings hung over the mantle.

“What are you talking about?” My voice is squeaky and awful. “Of course, Father Christmas is real, who do you think brings you presents every year?”

Henry rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “The ‘From Santa’ tags are written in Ebb’s handwriting, Simon. And I know you hide the presents in the cupboard on top of the fridge. Also, we don’t even _have_ a chimney.”

“But—”

“Simon, I’m ten. Not four.”

I open my mouth and can’t seem to close it again, standing in front of my brother in a tacky snowman sweater, trying desperately to come up with something to say. Ten seems too young to stop believing in Father Christmas. Why couldn’t Henry have kept believing until he was at least twelve?

He’s always been a naturally skeptical kid, but when it came to this, I could always placate his suspicions. And Ebb and I have loved pretending to be Father Christmas for Henry. She’d make big, sooty footprints all around our flat coming from the gas fireplace in our living room as if Father Christmas had come in from our nonexistent chimney, and I’d always eat the biscuits and drink the milk we’d leave out. I guess I could still do that now that he knows the truth, but it’ll be less fun.

I give up the act and my shoulders droop in defeat. “All right. I guess we won’t pretend this year.”

“We can still do the milk and cookies thing, and open presents and all that. I just think pretending I don’t know the truth is silly at this point.” Henry says, looking up at me seriously.

“Well, thank you for that.” Ebb laughs from her place on the sofa.

I laugh too and ruffle Henry’s hair. “Can I at least still pretend that you’re not all grown up?”

Henry shrugs and lets me wrap him in a hug. I feel his hands around my back—one patting me comfortingly and the other clutching that red rubber ball.

“Come on, boys. Let’s watch these old Christmas specials and stuff ourselves with sweets.” Ebb calls us over to the couch. We all pile up under the same thick, large blanket and eat biscuits and Christmas candy and warm hot cocoa until we’re all delightfully full and warm all the way down to our bones.

In the morning, we eat chocolate peppermint scones—a new creation of mine—and open presents. Henry gets the new books he wanted, and some space-themed toys. (Henry enforces that the little rocket ships and satellites are scale models, not toys.) As usual, Ebb gets goat paraphernalia from both of us, little figurines and a pair of wellies and a matching raincoat with goats on them. And I almost burst into tears when I unwrap a brand new, complete set of baking equipment. Beautiful glass mixing bowls and large sheet pans and a fancy new standing mixer. And there’s this elaborate piping set I can’t wait to experiment with.

After the living room floor is littered with wrapping paper and sparkly plastic bows, we eat leftovers from the huge meal I prepared yesterday. Turkey sandwiches and stuffing and gingerbread.

Ebb and I watch Henry assemble his scale models on the coffee table and quietly talk about easy, soft things. I receive a Happy Christmas text from Agatha and Penny. Agatha sends me a picture of her parents sitting in front of a roaring fireplace drinking egg nog and waving at the camera. Pen sends me a selfie of her and Shep in her parent’s living room. In the background I can see a few of her siblings arguing about something in that animated Bunce way.

Baz sends me a picture of little Magnus tearing open a wrapped present with Mordelia watching over him and a text that says, _Happy Christmas, love._ I respond with a picture of Henry with his tongue stuck out in concentration as he tries to attach a little solar panel to a model satellite.

Our Christmases are usually this casual. We eat good food and enjoy exchanging gifts and just spend time together without much fanfare. I wonder what Christmas with Baz’s family is like. They’re terribly posh people, I know that much.

As an early Christmas gift, Baz took me to get a new properly tailored suit. I squirmed and twitched and told him it was too much to spend on me throughout the whole measuring and fitting ordeal, but he insisted that I needed it for dinners with his family.

“We wear suits for Sunday dinners and Christmas meals, we’re not animals, Snow.” He told me while the man in the very expensive and posh shop he dragged me to measured me.

“Posh bastard,” I grumbled under my breath, but he heard me anyway and smirked.

“Don’t be rude, love. You’ll look stunning in grey.”

So now I’m the owner of a perfectly fitted grey suit, cufflinks and all. Baz went ahead and took it with him to Hampshire for the holiday, because neither of us trusted me not to ruin it on the train ride there.

I hope I don’t make a fool out of myself in front of his dad. Baz doesn’t talk about him much, but I know he doesn’t exactly approve of his son’s sexuality. So I’ve got to be polite and make a good impression so I don’t make anything worse. I’m honestly terrified, but I do want to be with Baz and see his family for the holidays, even if his dad does preemptively hate me.

At home, nobody puts on actual clothes until we have to go back to school and work at the end of the break. We all just wear cozy pyjamas and sweatpants and laze around the flat, playing games and eating sweets. I imagine Baz’s family celebrates Christmas more like the Wellbeloves do. Fancy clothes and food and all that. I was honestly a little relieved when Agatha and I broke up in high school because I wouldn’t have to suffer through any more posh parties at her parents’ house. The food was good, but I could never relax, and it was very stressful, trying not to mess up and embarrass myself at the dinner table that had a dozen forks and spoons I didn’t know how to properly use.

Then I went and fell in love with Baz, another posh person. But I actually _want_ to be his boyfriend. The stakes are so much higher.

Dating Baz is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. I think if I can get that point across to his father, things should hopefully go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry this chapter took a bit longer to get up. I, like a lot of people, was busy being consumed by election anxiety, desperately scrolling newsfeeds and waiting for certain states to turn blue and all that. But Biden won, it's been called. I'm so relieved, as I'm sure you all are.  
> There's still a lot of work to be done, a lot of issues to be dealt with, but for now I think we should all just take a beat and be thankful to the incredible people like Stacey Abrams for doing all that work to get that shitty orange fascist out of office. Take it easy for a bit!  
> Thanks for reading!


	38. Christmas at Pitch Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz takes Simon home for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: light, non-descriptive sexual content in second half of chapter  
> The rest is mostly fluff though, so enjoy!

**Baz**

When I pick Simon up from the train station in Hampshire, he has a large duffle bag thrown over one shoulder and a lovingly hand-knitted hat shoved over his curls that looks like Ebb’s handiwork.

I spot him before he sees me, so I get to watch him look around worriedly for a moment before he catches sight of me, leaned up against my father’s Jag in the pickup lane. His face breaks out into one of those powerful, wide Simon grins, and he runs through the crowd and into my arms like he’s just come back from war.

“Baz!” He shouts excitedly, weaving through passerby like a charging bull. I’d roll my eyes at his dramatics if my heart wasn’t beating wildly, and if I wasn’t smiling back at him just as big.

The impact of his full body embracing mine nearly knocks the breath out of me, but then he kisses me fiercely, and that does the trick. He tangles his fingers in my hair and ravishes my mouth like it’s been months since we last kissed, not just over a week. But it felt longer than that, I’ll admit.

He tastes like mint and chocolate and he’s so warm, even though there’s a layer of ankle-deep snow on the ground.

We kiss for a long moment, him pressing me up against the car like he can’t get enough of me, and I’m so bloody happy he’s here, in my arms, that I could cry.

Maybe he’s not the only one being a bit dramatic.

“Careful, love. You’ll have me thinking you missed me.” I tease him as we come up for air. He’s grinning so brightly it almost hurts to look at. I decide right now that no matter what Malcom thinks, I would do anything for this man in front of me. I’m not that depressed, self-loathing teenaged boy anymore; he can’t send me away to boarding school and sweep who I am under the rug. I’m Baz Pitch, and I am in love with Simon Salisbury, and there’s nothing my father can do about that. He can take away my inheritance, it doesn’t matter. I’m an adult now, and I still have the Pitch coffers to sustain me.

Simon nudges his nose against mine, our mingled breaths fogging in the air around us. “I did miss you.”

“Me too.” I admit, because I can’t help it. I give him one last peck before taking his bag and putting it in the boot, and then we’re driving to Pitch Manor.

Despite all the brash affection he lavished upon me when we met up, I can tell Simon is nervous now, sitting in the passenger seat, messing with the hem of his jumper. It has candy canes on it. Disgusting. Precious.

At a stoplight, I reach over and squeeze his hand comfortingly. “Calm down, love. It’s going to be fine. We’ll eat lunch with my family and then Dev and Niall are coming over this evening and we’re all going out for drinks.”

He definitely perks up at the mention of lunch. “Oh good. I only had a sandwich and a mint aero bar on the train. So, Niall did spend Christmas with Dev and his family then?”

“I believe so. I think Dev’s mum and dad are just glad Dev’s found someone who cares about him.”

“Oh, yeah, Niall’s mad about Dev.” Simon mumbles absently, looking out the window at the snowy countryside. He seems less anxious now; his shoulders have lost some tension, and he starts humming along to the infernal Christmas music playing on the radio.

The drive is comfortably quiet for a while after that, until I finally get to the long drive down to the manor from the main road, at which point Simon starts gawking at the tall, iron-wrought front gates and all the bare, well-established trees that line the road. And then we break out of the woods and come up on the circle driveway, my childhood home towering above us, looking appropriately imposing with its dark turrets and intricate window frames, as well as picturesque, with snow on the eaves and a wreath hung in every window, lights strung up around some of the perfectly pruned shrubs planted in the front.

My mother loved this house and the surrounding land with all that she was. Fiona does too, though she doesn’t come around much since she moved out when Father married Daphne. She says the memories are too much for her sometimes. I can relate to her some, in that regard. I like coming home, but sometimes when I do, I feel this acute grief hit me right in the chest. This was my mother’s house. She grew up here, raised me here. Her headstone is in the Pitch family graveyard a little way behind the manor, on the other side of the woods. (There weren’t many remains of her after the fire, but I still go there sometimes and sit against her headstone, surrounded by the ghosts of my ancestors.)

It’s easy for me to be sucked into my grief when I come here. I think, if Malcom and Daphne and the children didn’t live here, I would be completely gutted, seeing it empty. It’s a grand home that deserves to be lived in, full of gorgeous rooms and priceless antiques and my mother’s memory. I can see her even now, tucked among the books in the library, preserved in the portraits of our ancestors on the walls.

Technically, the house belongs to me. My mother was the eldest Pitch left, and I am her only son. Fiona doesn’t want anything to do with it, really. She says maintaining such a home is too much hassle for her, and that she wouldn’t know what to do with all that space. I’ve given the deed to my father, for now. I don’t want the responsibility of Pitch Manor completely on my shoulders quite yet. It serves me better as a place I can return to, an untouched pocket of my past that my family watches over.

Sometimes when I think of my old home, I can get macabre and depressed. But not this time. I have the human embodiment of the sun in the seat next to me. He’s looking up at the house as I park the Jag in the garage, mouth hanging open because he’s a moron. A beautiful moron.

“Dev said you lived in a literal Gothic palace, but I didn’t expect _this_.” He says, awestruck.

I roll my eyes and get out of the car to grab his bag from the boot. “It’s Victorian, not Gothic, and I don’t live here anymore.”

Simon tumbles out of the jag and we skip using the large, ornate front door and just enter the house through the garage. Immediately, we can smell Vera’s cooking wafting out from the kitchen as we step into the dark hallway that was technically part of the servant’s quarters a very long time ago. Malcom and Daphne still employ groundskeepers and maids, but only Vera lives in the house. She’s remarkably polite, but we tend to disregard any formalities in our interactions. Though she refuses to call me Baz. Just Basilton.

“We’re here!” I call out, leading Simon down the hall and into the kitchen. Vera is there at the stove. She’s a tall, stern woman in her mid-fifties. Her salt and pepper hair is always in a neat bun, and I only ever see her in sensible black slacks and dresses. She was my nanny, back when I was a child, but now she serves as more of a cook and manages the house upkeep.

“Basilton! You’re just in time, lunch is almost ready to be served.”

“Excellent. Vera, this is my boyfriend, Simon Salisbury. Simon, this is Vera, she runs the house.” I introduce them.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. Lunch smells incredible.” Simon shakes her hand and hits her with a shy smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Salisbury, it’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Let me know if you need anything while you’re here.”

I enjoy watching Simon turn red and stutter at Vera’s polite use of _Mr. Salisbury._

“You don’t—er—just Simon, is fine. Thank—thank you.”

I grin and wink at Vera as I usher Simon out of the kitchen, and she shakes her head at me with mock disapproval.

“Tell everyone it’ll just be a few more minutes or so.” She says as we go, turning to take something buttery and delicious out of the oven.

“I will.”

I carry Simon’s bag despite his protests and lead him further into the house, out of the servant’s quarters and into the main wing. We pass the foyer, with its ten-foot Christmas tree that’s purely for decoration; the tree my parents put presents under for the children is in the living room, where I suspect most of them are now. I leave Simon’s bag by the stairs in the foyer to bring up later when I show him to my room. He stops and grabs a few wrapped gifts from his bag for the children I assume, and then we head to the heart of the house. Before we even enter the room, I can hear the children playing and laughing with their new toys, hear Daphne’s favorite instrumental Christmas album playing from the antique record player.

“We’re back.” I announce as we come in. Immediately, Simon is torn away from me as my siblings swarm him. It’s just Mordelia and the twins, Magnus must be napping upstairs. They hug him and ask him a million questions too fast and overlapping to hear and the twins cling to his legs while Mordelia tugs on his sleeve, trying to get him to give her the gifts in his arms.

“Okay, okay. Hold on.” Simon laughs. Three of the small gifts go to each one of my sisters, which they tear open eagerly.

“Henry picked them out for all of you, they’re from both of us. Happy Christmas.” He says. He goes over to Daphne where she sits on the large sofa and hands her what is obviously a bottle of wine wrapped in sparkly paper.

She accepts it and stands to hug him and kiss him on the cheek. “We’re so glad you could make it, Simon. Please, make yourself at home. We’re just about to have lunch, and there should be some Grimms dropping in later this evening. Let me go get Malcom from his study and check on the baby.”

Daphne smiles reassuringly at me and squeezes my shoulder as she leaves the room.

I tug Simon over to sit next to me on the couch and turn my attention to the girls. Ophelia and Acantha both unwrap these fantasy-themed colouring books and a set of lovely coloured pencils, and Mordelia lets out an ungodly shriek that makes me flinch when she unwraps her gift.

In her hands is a foggy glass ball full of swirls of vibrant purple and green. The base of it is made of pewter in the shape of skeletal hands that are cradling the ball. Mordelia is clutching it to her chest like it’s her firstborn child.

“It’s a magic crystal ball! I’ve always wanted one of these! Thank you!” Mordelia looks at Simon, her dark eyes gleaming with joy. “Tell Henry I say thanks, too.”

She looks down almost maniacally at the ball and smiles excitedly. “I’m going to divine so many dark prophecies with this! I’ve got to go find my cape, and my scrying bones, and the fog machine…” She lists off things she’ll need for her séance or whatever she does in the attic where she likes to play. She’s mumbling to herself about electric candles and crystals as she leaves the room to go be the strange little girl that she is.

“We probably won’t see her for the rest of the day.” I tell Simon. “But the crystal ball was a good idea.”

“It was Henry’s idea. He says she wants to be a witch. And, uh, what are scrying bones?”

I laugh and shake my head. “I think they’re just little shiny things she’s collected. Mother won’t let her have actual bones.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

Despite there being many available seats in the living room, the twins insist on getting between me and my boyfriend, each taking up residence on one of Simon’s knees. They aren’t as nosy and devious as their older sister, but they are still two eight-year-old little menaces with someone new to play with at their disposal.

“Will you let me paint your nails, Simon?” Acantha asks, inspecting Simon’s large, freckled hand, turning it over in her small pale ones.

“Uh, sure.” Simon agrees.

“I wish your hair was long enough to braid like Basil’s.” She pouts. I wince, remembering her rough treatment of my hair when I finally gave in and let her play with it after arriving here. I won’t be making that mistake again for a while.

Simon glances at me and grins. If we were alone right now, I’d snog the life out of him for that look. “He does have rather pretty hair, doesn’t he?”

Acantha shrugs and agrees right as Ophelia says, “Are you going to marry Baz? Who proposes when it’s two boys? Do you both propose?”

Simon blushes bright pink and splutters in surprise, and I think back fondly to a time when I was an only child for a moment.

Luckily, before either of us have to come up with an answer, Daphne sweeps back into the room with a yawning Magnus on her hip. Right behind her comes my father holding the hand of a grumpy-looking Mordelia, and Fiona brings up the rear, looking bored until she sees Simon and I. She catches my eye and winks and I roll my eyes at her.

She always comes here and spends the holidays with us, even now that I’m an adult. She won’t admit it, but I know she likes Daphne and the children. She even has some small affection for my father, but she’s even more begrudging about admitting that.

“You can go play after we’ve had lunch, Mordelia.” My father tells Mordelia firmly, and she sighs impatiently but doesn’t run off when he lets go of her hand.

Daphne begins ushering the children out to wash their hands and go to the dining room for lunch, sending me a reassuring look as they go. Fiona sends me a questioning look, but I gently shake my head, and she leaves with a shrug. The twins hop off of Simon’s lap, leaving us alone in the room with my father, and for a second I’m worried Simon hasn’t recovered from Ophelia’s invasive question but then he stands up as well and smiles a little nervously at my father, offering his hand up to shake.

“Hello, sir. Thank you for having me in your home, it’s lovely. I’m Simon Salisbury.” He doesn’t even stutter, and I’m impressed. My father is an intimidating man. His hair has gone completely white and his face is that impassive mask I know so well, because I modeled my own poker face after it. He’s not in a suit, but I’m sure to Simon his dark button down and pressed black slacks make him seem a little overdressed in his own home during holiday.

Simon probably can’t tell, but I’ve spent years analyzing the way my father carries himself and looks at things. I can see him quickly scanning Simon for any flaws. His gaudy Christmas sweater, his messy curls, worn jeans and ruddy cheeks. The tattoos visible on his arms with the way his sleeves are pushed up because my boyfriend is always just a bit too warm. And there’s no way he missed Simon’s uncouth accent.

My father looks at the man I love, and I know he’s only seeing the minor flaws in his appearance, things he’s logging away to build a case against Simon. But his face stays completely still and emotionless as he returns Simon’s handshake with a sharp nod.

“Malcom Grimm. Pleased to have you here, Mr. Salisbury.” He says emotionlessly.

“Just Simon is fine.” Simon gives him another nervous smile, obviously worried about my father’s lack of any kind of warmth, despite his cordial words.

“Simon, then. Come along, Vera is serving lunch.”

As we walk a few paces behind my father to the dining room, I catch Simon’s hand in mine and squeeze it. He sends me an anxious but genuine smile and squeezes back.

**Simon**

Baz’s father is dead scary. Not Fiona scary, mind you. Fiona is scary in an unpredictable, vicious way, but Malcom Grimm is something different. He’s bloody terrifying, like a quiet, dark storm looming overhead. They way he moves and speaks is eerily similar to the way Baz did when we first met, when I thought he didn’t like me very much. Both him and Fiona are in the same room now, and I’d honestly feel safer with Fiona.

I guess he’s where Baz gets that cool, expressionless demeanor from.

I don’t understand how such a polite, affectionate lady like Daphne could marry him. He’s so quiet and vaguely menacing, sitting at the head of the long, ornate table in the fancy dining room. He hasn’t spoken two words to me since we all sat down and began eating, and it’s making me nervous, because I can still feel him looking at me.

Luckily, the food here is delicious enough to mostly distract me from that. I’m going to have to ask Vera about what she does in the kitchen. I need to know how to make rolls like this.

The meal isn’t too awkward though. Baz’s stepmum and siblings do a good job of filling the silence, and so does Fiona. I give the children updates on Henry and talk to Daphne about her rose garden behind the house. The food is amazing, and Baz holds my hand or rests his hand on my thigh under the table.

After we eat, he takes me upstairs to his room. We talked about me staying in one of the many guest rooms in the mansion but decided against that. We’re grown blokes and I don’t like sleeping in a new place alone. So I’ll be sleeping in Baz’s childhood bedroom, with him.

He leads me up the large, grand staircase and down a few fancy hallways with plush red carpet and hardwood floors and oil paintings of landscapes and pretty vases on frighteningly small and spindly tables. This place looked big from the outside, but it’s absolutely massive on the inside. I don’t know how his family don’t get lost in their own house all the time. There aren’t any windows, this deep in the house, and the only light comes from antique sconces on the walls and the occasional tall floor lamp.

Baz suddenly stops at a door that looks just like all the rest, and I almost bump into him.

“Here we are.” He shifts my bag onto his other shoulder—because he refused to let me carry it, the stupid, romantic git—and opens the door.

I expect posters on the walls and childhood bric-a-brac cluttering his shelves. The shelves in here are cluttered, but just with books. Which actually makes more sense for Baz. The walls are bare except for the fancy old wallpaper and a few framed family photos. There’s a window looking out towards the woods at the side of the house, and two other doors that I assume lead to the loo and maybe a closet.

It’s a large room, furnished with matching antique furniture all made of the same, dark and well-polished wood. The biggest thing in the room is the bed, this four-poster monstrosity covered in thick duvets and decorative pillows with these creepy, intricately carved gargoyles on the posts and headboard. There’s also a desk and a large wardrobe and a sofa and a few matching chairs and a big woodburning fireplace opposite from the bed. I can’t imagine a little Baz growing up in this enormous, ancient-looking room.

Baz sets my bag down on the sofa and points to one of the doors. “The bathroom is just there. Daphne asked about what products you like so she could stock them for you, and I didn’t want to tell her that you use two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, so there’s only my things. You can use them if you want.”

I dare to walk further into the room. It’s a little Gothic and creepy, but most of the things in this house seem to be that way. The whole place feels like some kind of live-in museum. I’m scared to touch things in fear of ruining them, but I come and wrap my arms around Baz because he’s made it very clear I’m always allowed to touch him.

“Thank you, darling.” I kiss his cheek and rest my head on his shoulder, feel him relax and lean into the embrace. I squeeze his waist and lean up teasingly close to his ear. His breath hitches just a little when my lips brush his ear and I grin.

“And I use three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.” I whisper softly.

Baz shoves me off him in revulsion, shuddering only half-dramatically. “You absolute heathen. _Please_ tell me that’s not true.”

I shrug, laughing at his horrified expression. “What? It’s easy and fast!”

Baz throws his hand over his eyes and collapses heavily onto a big ornate armchair. “I should have gotten you individual fucking shower products for Christmas. I can’t believe I’m in love with someone who doesn’t properly condition his hair.”

Speaking of gifts…

I laugh at his horrified tone and go to my bag to get his present. Gift shopping for Baz was a challenge. I knew I couldn’t get him clothes or shoes—he has plenty of both, and I have no idea where or how to shop for the styles and brands he likes. I would have ended up getting him something he hated.

I shove aside the little plush dragon toy I brought for Magnus and smile when I feel the wrapping of Baz’s present.

Clutching it in my hand, I turn back around to face Baz with it hidden behind my back, only to see him on the other side of the room, taking something small wrapped with a sparkly bow out of his posh suitcase.

“I thought my present was the suit. You didn’t need to get me anything else, Baz.”

“This is just a little thing.” He argues, holding up the small package. “And, well. I might have…gotten more than just the one suit.” I watch as he sends a semi-guilty look towards the door that leads to the closet.

“Baz!” I gasp at him, horrified. I stomp over to the closet and throw the door open and—fuck. There hanging on the rack built into the wall is the light grey suit and dress shoes Baz and I agreed he’d get me for Christmas, specifically to wear to dinner with his family. And hanging right behind it is another suit of the exact same size. The jacket is a dark navy blue, with black lapels and trousers and a sharp black bowtie. I reach out and feel the thick velvet of the jacket and turn an accusing glare to Baz, who has come to stand sheepishly behind me.

I know I felt physically ill when I saw the price of the first suit he got me, so I can feel the blood draining from my face when I imagine that doubled.

“Baz. This is too much to spend on me. You have to return it.”

He shakes his head and wraps his arms around my waist, hooking his pointy chin over my shoulder. “It’s custom made, no way to return it. And besides, a man needs more than just one suit.”

I refuse to let him soften me with physical affection. I cross my arms over my chest above where his arms wrap around me. “I didn’t have any suits before, and I was doing just fine.”

He starts pressing these soft kisses down my neck and it takes all my self-control to not melt into his embrace, but I’m staying firm in my displeasure. “It’s too much.” I say again.

Baz sighs, and it sends a few of my curls upwards. “I couldn’t help myself. You’ll look so fit in them, Simon.” He resumes kissing my neck, taking a moment to nibble gently on my earlobe, and I can’t hold back my shiver. He used my first name

“But now my gift for you is going to seem so…small.” I frown at the small package still held in my hand.

He shakes his head, long dark hair brushing against mine. “That’s not what it’s about, love. I’ll love whatever you give me. If it makes you feel any better, think of the suits as another gift to me. Because I get to see you in them.” His voice dips lower, gets gravellier, and suddenly I’m not thinking of anything but the way he’s holding me right now, how his breath warms my ear. How his hips press against my arse just enough for me to also get…interested.

“And I also get to take them off you.” He whispers in my ear.

I know what he’s doing. Trying to distract me from the outrageous amount of money he’s spent on me with sex. He starts kissing my neck again, this time letting me feel his teeth scrape against my skin. His hands slip down and squeeze my hips suggestively.

I turn around and fix him with a disapproving stare, but he’s got that heated glint in his grey eyes now, turning them almost silver, and I know I’m done for. He surges forward and his lips lock with mine, and I kiss him back for a second. It really has been too long, but I pull away for a moment to smile up at him in disbelief.

“Baz, it’s the middle of the day. We’re at your parents’ house.”

His answering smile is sharp and hungry. “We have a little time before anyone comes to bother us. Just enough time for me to ravish you on my childhood bed.”

“Baz!” I let out a shocked laugh, but I let him lead me to the massive gargoyle bed and check a few of the things I’ve missed off the list.

After Baz and I have exhausted ourselves for the moment, we lie there on the massive bed and I look over at him, panting and sweaty and gorgeous beside me.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Baz turns onto his side and kisses my forehead, and then I get the pleasure of watching him and his naked arse slip out of bed and go around the room. He puts on his pants and I see him grab my present for him where I set it on the sofa as we undressed each other in a hurry on the way to the bed, along with the small gift he got for me.

Then he comes back and sits cross-legged next to me. He keeps my present for him and tosses my present onto my lap.

“Happy Christmas, love.” He dips down and kisses my forehead again, and then we open our gifts simultaneously.

Mine is made of dark red, neatly folded and sturdy fabric, but I don’t unfold it right away, because Baz has his present unwrapped and open and I want to see his reaction.

It takes him a moment to realize what it is, as he lifts every piece from the box, and they unfold delicately in his hands. I hold my breath, terrified of his reaction. I kind of took a risk with this gift, but I want him to like it so badly.

“Are these…personalized, embroidered handkerchiefs, Snow?” He asks slowly, closely inspecting them one by one.

“Yeah. There’s uh, one for every day of the week. They’re handmade. Personalized for you.” Each one is a different colour and has his initials embroidered in a corner, and along the edges are delicately embroidered flowers and pleasing vinelike designs.

A slow, delighted smile begins to stretch across his face, and I feel a wave of relief.

“Simon, these are lovely.” Baz lifts a pale blue one with roses on the edge to feel the soft material against his cheek.

“I’m glad you like them.”

“I love them. Thank you, love.”

Baz leans over to kiss me, and one of his hands comes up to cup my face and I feel his thumb stroke my cheekbone. Kissing Baz is one of the best things I’m able to do, and I almost pout when he pulls away, but he’s still got that excited smile on his face.

“Now look at yours.”

I narrow my eyes at him in suspicion, but he doesn’t say anything else, just looks at me expectantly. I carefully unfold the fabric and immediately recognize the familiar shape. It’s an apron with a cartoonish petit fours on the front and the words _Professional Pastry Maker_ printed underneath, except _Maker_ is crossed out and written above it is the word _Eater._

I bust out laughing and pull him into my arms. He tries to keep his face indifferent and expressionless but as I rain kisses down on him, he cracks and smiles at me.

“Oh my God, you got me a cheesy novelty apron, you really are the man of my dreams.” I joke, and Baz laughs and kisses me back.

“And you got me handkerchiefs.” He says fondly.

“You’re a posh bastard and the only person I know who has handkerchiefs still. And I love you.”

Baz kisses me fiercely for a moment, both hands coming up to tangle in my hair, lips unafraid to dominate the kiss. When he pulls back, I wonder if he wants to go again, because I’m certainly not against the idea, but he just leans his forehead tenderly against mine and runs his fingers through my messy curls.

“I love you too. So much.”

Here, in his arms, only kept decent by a silk bedsheet in this huge, obnoxiously posh bed, I feel like I’m at home for the first time since coming to Pitch Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Sorry about the long wait for this update, work has kept me very busy this month but I wanted this chapter out here by Thanksgiving so those of you who, like me, are trapped in familial obligational get-togethers that can be, you know...less than ideal, have something to entertain/distract yourselves with while getting through the holiday. I hope this can give you some joy if you're having a tough time, and if you're not, then I'm glad I could make it even better! Please stay safe and healthy and thank you for reading!


	39. Going Out and Going Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon visits Pitch Manor for the holidays! Dancing and fun and uncomfortable chats ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: chapter contains mild, non-explicit sexual content and implied sexual content  
> trigger warning: homophobia

**Baz**

My uncle and his family arrive at the manor just in time for dinner, towing along Dev and Niall, who greet my parents and the children and then pounce on Simon and I. Niall immediately pulls Simon into a hug and teases him about how he cleans up well. After we showered, I managed to wrestle Simon into the grey suit—I was right, it’s fucking stunning on him. His eyes look bluer than ever and I almost can’t be bothered to look at anything else.

There’s a big, family dinner, the formal dining room bursting with my extended Grimm relatives. I can tell Simon likes the food because to my stepmother’s delight he eats about three helpings of everything, eradicating the danger of having too many leftovers.

Then the group moves into the parlor so my father and his brother and a couple of their cousins can smoke cigars and drink brandy and talk about agriculture, and the women can drink coffee and have tiramisu by the fireplace politely gossiping about whatever recent scandalous thing happened at the club.

The children have disappeared into their rooms, busy playing with this year’s Christmas toys, and soon enough Simon and Dev and Niall and I are able to slip away up to my room to get ready to go out for drinks. Fiona lets me know that I’m welcome to call her for a ride home if we get too plastered tonight, but makes point of saying that she reserves the right to draw on our faces if we pass out in her car.

“I’ll do you a favor, but I’ll also collect blackmail material.” She warns, and I know that she’s not joking.

I mistakenly thought that tonight we’d just go out to a quiet pub or something and have calm, mature drinks and be home before midnight, but as usual, Dev has another plan. He’s found a gay club in town and has decided that we’re all going to go and dance the night away. I’d argue with him about this plan more if his last idea for a little adventure wasn’t a certain underground fighting ring. And that turned out rather well for me, so I don’t really have a leg to stand on against him.

Niall takes over my bathroom with his makeup kit and carefully applies eyeliner and lipstick and light glitter to his face while Simon sits on the edge of the bathtub and Dev compares two nearly identical dark patterned button downs against himself in the mirror. The bathroom is big enough that we can all fit inside comfortably, so I’m leaning up against the doorframe, still skeptical about the whole idea but unwilling to dampen how thrilled Dev is.

Simon is hesitant as well. He chews on his lip nervously as he watches Niall fill in his eyebrows.

“I’ve never been to a gay club before. What do you even wear?” He asks aloud to no in in particular.

Dev finally decides on one of the shirts and turns to Simon excitedly. “Whatever you want, mate. You don’t need to dress up if you’re not comfortable.” Dev pauses and looks over Simon in his worn jeans and tacky Christmas sweater, twisting his mouth to the side doubtfully. Simon was eager to get out of the suit as soon as we returned to my room. He’s terrified of tearing it or getting it dirty. And while he looked positively amazing in it, I took pity on his fears and helped him hang it back up in the closet.

“Maybe not that, though. Do you have anything that doesn’t have sparkly candy canes on it?”

“I like this sweater.” Simon pouts, crossing his arms over his chest and sulking a bit.

“Change into nicer jeans and put on a tight tee shirt. Show off the ink, your shoulders. That should be fine, Simon.” Niall suggests, not pausing in applying mascara to himself. I’m surprised to hear Niall giving him advice on dressing down, considering he’s putting on a full face of makeup and wearing a top with long, sheer and glittery sleeves and a pair of tight-fitting black leather pants and big, platform boots with buckles going almost up to his knees.

“Sure, okay.” Simon shrugs and leaves the room to search his luggage for suitable clothes. I know for a fact he owns many tight-fitting tee shirts and most likely brought a few with him. It’s a true blessing from above.

I leave the bathroom too and head over to my closet. Even if I’m trepidatious about this plan, I know exactly what I want to wear, and it gives me a little thrill to get the chance to wear my impulsive Christmas present to myself so soon.

There it is in the back of my closet, hidden in a discreet garment bag Simon didn’t notice when he first looked inside. I brought it just in case I felt brave enough to wear it to a formal dinner here, but this is a much better use for it.

Simon is not the only one I went suit-shopping for. As soon as I have it on, I smirk at myself in the full-length mirror of the closet. It fits perfectly and it feels exhilarating to wear. Every last detail is phenomenal, from the cufflinks to the rich red silk that lines the inside of the jacket.

The suit is a dark navy blue patterned with hand-stitched red roses. I’ve put on a deep red shirt to go with it

Because I am a very vain man, I practically slam open the closet door and saunter out theatrically, ready for the boys to lose their shit. Unfortunately, Dev and Niall are still puttering about in the bathroom, and Simon has his back to me as he shucks off his tacky Christmas sweater and pulls a simple black tee shirt on instead. He’s got a different pair of jeans on too, darker and tighter than his usual faded, worn pairs.

I watch him run his hand through his hair and scratch the back of his neck for a moment after he’s got the new shirt on and then clear my throat pointedly. Finally, he turns around, opens his mouth—his gaze lands on me, effectively freezing him in place.

I try not to preen too much under his obvious fascination and approval but it’s rather difficult not to when he’s looking at me like _that_ , all starry eyed and mouth agape. His eyes rake up and down my form, once, twice, three times, before settling on my face.

“Oh, wow.” His voice is quietly awed and hoarse in the best kind of way and he can’t seem to form complete sentences. “That’s—you look—wow. Uh, it’s—"

“Holy shit, that’s the gayest shit I have ever seen in my life, and we haven’t even left the house yet.” Niall declares as he and Dev exit the bathroom and he gets a look at me.

In his tall platforms, Niall is just about as tall as me. He walks closer and travels a little circle around me, hand cradling his chin thoughtfully. “You look fucking fantastic. Is that designer?”

“Bloody look who you’re talking to, of course it’s designer.” Dev snorts, leaning down to put on his shoes.

“Right, right. Well, brilliant. I love it. Are we all ready to go?” Niall asks, gathering his phone and wallet and promptly giving them to Dev, because there’s no way Niall is going to ruin the lines of his outfit with bulky rectangles in his back pockets, naturally.

Dev nods and smirks as he puts on his coat. “I think so. Except one of us is going to have to reboot Simon, I think he’s malfunctioning.”

Simon is still in the exact same spot as he was when he first laid eyes on me. A flush has taken over his face and his mouth is still hanging open in shock, but a beat after Dev mentions him, he seems to shake himself out of it with a little start, flushing deeper and managing to close his mouth, tearing his eyes away from me, to my displeasure. I’d sell my soul for Simon to look at me like that for the rest of my life.

“Uh, I—I’m okay. Are we going?”

“Yup. Baz, you good to drive?”

I roll my eyes but nod. “Obviously. I’m the only one out of this sorry bunch who _can_ drive, so.”

“Oi! I have a license!” Dev squawks.

“I wouldn’t trust you with a bicycle, Dev.”

My cousin pouts as we all gather our coats and then go downstairs and bid goodnight to the relatives still in the parlor. Fiona cackles in delight at my suit, which is the closest thing to a compliment from her, and Daphne adores it. I borrow my father’s Jaguar again and the four of us pile inside.

Dev and Simon argue over who gets to sit shotgun, and it’s decided that either of them could use a cell phone to help me navigate the way to the club, so Simon ends up next to me.

“I get no respect! I’m the one who _found_ this club!” Dev says much too loudly from the backseat.

“So you found it on Yelp, it’s not like you built it with your own two hands. You get just the right amount of respect, babe.” Niall reasons.

Simon gives me an amused look as he turns up the radio to drown out Dev’s indignant spluttering. After I’ve gotten us out of the long, dark drive that leads up to the manor and onto the road towards town, I reach over and rest my hand on Simon’s thigh. I feel the calloused warmth of his hand fall on top of mine and smile as he rubs his thumb over my knuckles.

Finding parking within a few blocks of the club is somewhat difficult, but we manage it, and soon enough we’re standing in a reasonably sized queue of other presumably queer twenty-somethings outside of this club, the front of which is covered in posters and stickers advertising queer youth centers and queer-owned local businesses and the like. I won’t admit it to him, but maybe Dev had a good idea, bringing us here. Everyone around us is openly, happily queer. I see rainbow pins on bags and lapels, couples of all kinds holding hands or embracing. It’s gratifying and liberating and my heart swells with happiness at our surroundings, even if it is colder than hell outside.

But Simon was quiet on the walk here from the car, and now he’s dead silent beside me in line, chewing on his lip worriedly and practically vibrating in place with anxious energy. He’s not big on large crowds, but this is something else, I think. Dev and Niall are in front of us, Dev laughing while Niall is having a lively conversation about his platform boots with a similarly dressed person ahead of them.

I gently touch Simon’s arm and call his name and just like I thought he would, he startles and looks up at me in shock for a moment before pasting a strained smile on his face. I’ve pulled him out of some deep thought spiral, and with Simon, deep thinking is suspect of something either very good or very bad. Signs are pointing to bad at the moment.

“Yeah, Baz?” He says, almost too quietly to hear over the people talking and laughing around us.

I move my hand down his arm and lace my cold fingers with his much warmer ones. “Are you alright, love? You seem a little tense.”

His shoulders tense up further at my questioning, and he tucks his chin closer to his chest and nods stiffly, staring at the pavement off to the side. “Yeah, I’m—uh fine. Great. I’m okay.” His voice is low, and he’s trying to sound casual and very much failing.

“Simon,” I say again, a tad sterner, but still soft, loving. “You can tell me if something is wrong.”

He takes in a fast breath and exhales it with a shudder, his breath fogging up the cold December air. Then he looks up at me and I see his eyes brimming a bit with tears, abused bottom lip trembling just the slightest with unexpected emotion.

I pull him closer to me, switch from holding his hand to wrapping my arm protectively around his waist. Then I reach in front of me to poke Dev in the shoulder and tell him that he and Niall should go on ahead, Simon and I will meet them inside later, we need to get out of line. I make up an excuse about forgetting my phone in the car.

Dev shrugs and says he’ll try to save our spots, but I’m already walking away with Simon in the direction we came from. I’m not worried about the line. It’s not terribly long and is moving at a healthy pace anyway. Simon is more important right now. He doesn’t argue when I pull him away, but he does look up at me in surprise.

I don’t go all the way back to the car, but I do make sure we’re out of eye and earshot of the crowd in front of the nightclub before stopping in front of a closed and locked storefront, well illuminated by a nearby streetlight.

I turn around and grip Simon by the shoulders and meet his eyes. He’s more confused than sad right now.

“Baz? What are you doing? I thought we were going to the car—”

“I didn’t leave my phone in the car. I just wanted some privacy for you to tell me what’s wrong.”

He shrinks into himself again a little and looks ashamed, shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets. Mumbles, “You didn’t need to get out of line, I said I’m okay—”

“Says the man on the verge of tears. Tell me what’s bothering you, Simon. Please?”

He swallows audibly and then lowers his head again, but he does speak. I can hear it in this quiet section of the street, but there’s no way I could have made it out while we were standing in that crowd.

Low, full of shame that breaks my heart, accompanied by a little sniffle. “I’m not gay, Baz.”

He shrugs out of my hold and wrings his hands in front of him anxiously, daring to look up and meet my eyes and looking like it hurts him a bit. “I—I don’t know what I am. I love you, and I want you, and I’ve wanted other people before and some of them were blokes, but I’ve liked women before too, and—” He gets more agitated and increases in volume with every word he says. He begins pacing the short length of sidewalk in front of this closed storefront, running his hands through his hair in frantic agitation.

“What if I’m not meant to be here, Baz? What if I’m wrong for that place? What if I don’t belong?” He gestures wildly and a bit sadly in the direction of the club, shoulders once again slumping in shame. He wraps his arms around himself and turns away from me, looking like he’s about to burst into tears.

I blink, taken aback by the sudden rush of words and emotion. I wasn’t expecting this. Maybe I should have. Simon has never used any label on himself. He’s not straight, or gay, and he didn’t know bisexuality was a thing until Dev brought it up in reference to himself a while back. Simon never claimed he was that either. And now is not the time to categorize him anyway, that’s not the point.

I break my stunned silence with a little puzzled laugh that makes his head shoot up and whip around to look at me in surprise and a bit of defensiveness. I shake my head and raise my hands to placate him and step closer. I hold my hands out for his, and after a second he reluctantly places his on top of them.

Gently, I draw him closer to me and drop a kiss on his knuckles, smiling widely. “Simon, you are in no way wrong to go to a queer club.”

He looks dubious, cheeks flushed from the cold and his outburst. “But I don’t know what I am, Baz!”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t matter, love. You don’t need to know exactly what you are. You only need to know that you belong in places like that just as much as me or Niall or Dev do. Nobody is going to grill you about what you call yourself in there, and if they do, I’ll destroy them.”

He laughs a little at that. Out of the both of us, he is much more likely to be able to win in a physical altercation with a stranger. Still, he looks a little nervous.

“Are you sure?” He asks, glancing back towards the club warily, but also with a hint of anticipation that puts that happy shine back into his eyes where it belongs.

I draw him into a hug. “Yes, Simon. You belong. It’s a queer club. You’re not straight, so by process of elimination, you’re queer. It’s an umbrella term, and that’s okay. You can use that umbrella term. You belong.”

I feel him sigh in relief and he returns my embrace enthusiastically, arms squeezing me tight and demanding for a lovely moment.

We pull apart to see each other’s faces, and he’s smiling shyly at me. I kiss his cheek and he brushes my hair out of my face, fingertips tracing my cheekbone.

“You are welcome here, love. But if you’re not ready I can take you home; the boys can take a cab back to the manor.” I offer. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable. And honestly, I don’t care about dancing or alcohol, even if I would have to change out of this wonderful suit. I’d be happy to go back home with Simon right now and curl up in my bed together and watch movies for the rest of the night.

But this is Simon Salisbury. He doesn’t back down from a challenge, even if I didn’t mean it as one. I can see he’s still a little nervous, but now he’s got that stubborn set to his jaw as he shakes his head in refusal.

“No, no. I want to go. I’m ready.”

“Alright, love. Let’s go.”

With that, we join hands and head back to the club. He doesn’t look back, the courageous fuck.

**Simon**

When we get back into the queue to go into the club, Dev and Niall are already inside. Baz continues to hold my hand all the way up to the front, where we show our identification to a bouncer and are shuffled through the front doors. I appreciate the grounding touch.

Baz made me feel better about this whole thing, but I’ve still got this nervous jolt of energy in my stomach, entering this space that I’m so scared I won’t belong in. Just inside the door, a woman with impressive tattoos all over her arms stamps our hands, and then we’re in.

It’s a huge room, with a small stage for a DJ or a band off to one side. The bar is in the back of the room, shelves full of bottles and glasses lit up with colourful lights that sync up to the beat of the music. The rest of the room is just a big dancefloor, flooded with people all dancing and looking like they’re enjoying themselves.

“Oh, I see Dev and Niall.” Baz nods towards the bar, where I catch sight of them, each holding two tall but skinny glasses of bright blue drinks with little paper umbrellas in them.

Baz links his arm in mine as we begin to skirt around the crowd to get to them. I know my eyes are huge and darting around quickly, trying to take everything in. I almost bash my head into Baz’s as I swivel it around like Henry’s does when we take him to a museum.

Baz has dipped his head down to speak to me. I pay attention so I can hear him. “You know, love, you really shouldn’t worry. Based on what you did to me just earlier today, I’d say you’re extremely qualified to be here.” His voice is low and sultry and gleeful, and I hate it as much as I love it.

My face is on fucking fire, and I elbow him gently in the side and give him a disapproving glare, but it does nothing to wipe the smug smirk off his stupid, gorgeous face. He’s practically beaming.

“Baz! You—you can’t just—oh my God, we’re in _public!_ ” I hiss, and his smile only grows wider.

The teasing bastard actually winks at me before we get to Dev and Niall, who each hand us one of the bright blue drinks.

“What is this?” Baz asks, lifting the glass up to his nose to give it a curious sniff.

“Something tropical and strong, drink up and don’t complain.” Niall punctuates his order with a large swig of his drink, and Dev does the same.

I shrug and follow suit. It tastes fruity and sugary with a hint of coconut maybe, but it’s not too bad. I go ahead and drain the small glass, so I don’t have to keep track of it. When I lower it away from my face, I give a small shiver at the slight buzz I start to feel, but it doesn’t really hit me hard.

All three of them are staring at me expectantly as I’m the first one who finished it, and I shrug again, not knowing what to say.

“Oh, right, you’re a fucking alcohol tank.” Niall says flatly. “I’m not buying you any more drinks, it’ll cost a fortune.” Honestly, that’s fair.

Baz dares to take a sip of his drink. Almost immediately he’s grimacing like he just drank spoiled milk and holding it away from his face like its poison.

“Not a fan?” I slip my arm around his waist and when he nods and passes the glass to me, I drink it without complaint.

“So, what do we do now?” I ask the group, looking around again. Everything is lit up in flashing multicoloured lights and the music sounds fun and energetic and even with Baz’s reassurances and two drinks in me I still feel hesitant about going out on the dancefloor.

“We dance!” Dev shouts dramatically. He gathers up all the glasses, deposits them at the bar, and then comes back to us, nodding his head eagerly to the music and looking a bit ridiculous.

Niall snatches Dev’s hand, winks at me and Baz, and then he and Dev fearlessly join the mass of dancing people, disappearing quickly.

Baz dips his head down to speak into my ear again. He doesn’t really need to, he could talk just slightly over normal volume and I could probably hear him just fine, but I know he just likes getting close to me, and I’m certainly not against that.

“Do you want to dance?” He asks, and I know he’s actually asking me, not just being cute. He is, though. Cute, I mean. Gorgeous, really. Absolutely stunning, especially in this suit. Baz looks incredible no matter what he wears, but there’s something purely magical about him in a suit, and this one is just so very Baz. I don’t even know how to describe him in it, he just looks so perfect. In this changing rainbow of lights, he looks like something out of a fantastical dream, shadows playing with the sharp angles of his face, reflecting off his dark hair.

I try to look less terrified than I am and nod, and then Baz takes both of my hands in his and backs up toward the dancefloor, pulling me along with him. I must be failing to put on a brave face, because Baz’s playful expression changes into one of concern and he stops immediately.

“It’s alright, Simon. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No, no—I want to. It’s just—” I look around at all the people, moving their bodies in these mostly simple but fluid ways that I can’t even imagine successfully replicating with my body and try to swallow down my nervousness. My mouth still tastes like mildly disgusting artificial coconut.

I turn my gaze back to Baz and chew on my bottom lip. “I don’t know how to, uh, do this.”

He raises a brow, a teasing edge to his voice. “You certainly did at Bunce’s Halloween party.”

“I was very, very drunk at that party. And I just jumped around more than anything.” I remind him.

Baz rolls his eyes and uses his grip on my hands to pull me closer. Then he puts my hands on his hips, pushing past the front of his suit jacket. My thumbs skim the smooth material of his shirt. We’re standing chest-to-chest now, and I feel Baz’s hands briefly travel up the sides of my torso before coming up to loop over my shoulders. I can smell his posh cologne and if I pressed closer, I could hook my chin over his shoulder or bury my face in his chest.

He starts swaying side to side to the beat of the music, moving me with him and I feel so much safer in this crowd with him close to me like this, like we’re in our own private little bubble of space where all I have to focus on are the discreet shades of blue and green in his deep grey eyes, how his hair curls in a slight wave down to his shoulders.

Baz doesn’t leave my arm’s reach for the rest of the night, and I don’t have the words to tell him how grateful I am that he’s there, and that he loves me, and that he’s mine. The knot that took up residence in my stomach slowly loosens as we go on. Eventually, I even manage to detach from Baz’s embrace to dance with Niall, whose coordination is infinitely better than mine.

I actually end up having a really good time, in spite of the rocky start. I have another drink or two, because every time Baz gets a drink, he only has maybe a third of it before he’s passing it off to me. I know he’s declared himself the designated driver, so I don’t complain. I’m pleasantly buzzed and heavily flushed in my cheeks and my ears, and I can feel it creeping down my neck.

I don’t think Niall has really stopped dancing since he started, sending Dev out to bring him water while he continues to enjoy himself on the dancefloor. And Dev, bless him, is nowhere near as talented a dancer as his boyfriend, but he’s just happy to be there with all of us. When a Carley Rae Jepson song comes on, he gets so excited he grabs me by the hands and spins me around a few times in giddy delight, howling along to the lyrics as he does. (He’s fairly drunk, but he’s a fun drunk.)

And Baz. _Christ_ , Baz. He finally got too warm for his suit jacket a bit ago and took it off, and now he’s just in those tight flowery trousers and silky red shirt, sleeves rolled elegantly to his elbows, the top four _(four!)_ buttons of it undone, showing off his collarbones and a peek of dark chest hair. He’s infuriatingly, mouth-wateringly beautiful, and I can’t get enough of him and the way he moves. He’s not as bold as Niall is when it comes to dancing, but he’s graceful and effortless and _seductive_ in a way that makes my heart race and my brain short out.

I feel like an absolute numpty next to him, trying to move in the fluid way that seems to come naturally to him, but he doesn’t care. He just smiles at me, white teeth against golden brown skin, colourful lights catching and highlighting his eyes and his hair and the perfect lines of his face in ways that are endlessly interesting to me. It’s impossible to decide what about him to focus on. His plush lips mouthing along to familiar songs, the way his trim waist twists around as he moves, the slow, calculatedly perfect roll of his hips…

By the time we all agree it’s time to turn in, I have little else on my mind but _Baz_. It’s just past two in the morning, and when we spill out of the club alongside a group of drag queens that wish us a Happy New Year as they go, the cold winter air feels like heaven against my overheated skin. I take a moment to inhale a deep breath of it as we head back to the car. Dev and Niall have their arms slung around each other, giggling and whispering between themselves, tucked away in their own little romantic world.

But I’m not really one to talk.

Baz has his suit jacket thrown casually over one shoulder. His hair is notably more ruffled now than when we got here, partially because of the dancing and partially because of me. I ran my hands through it when he was being particularly irresistible earlier and used it to drag his face down to mine for a good adrenaline-fueled snog. His other hand is holding mine as we walk shoulder to shoulder.

The quiet night rings in my ears after the consistent loudness of the club, which is disorienting, but refreshing.

Once we’ve all piled back into Mr. Grimm’s car and are well on our way back to Pitch Manor, Baz glances over at me in the passenger seat and his lips quirk in an involuntary smile I adore.

“So, how did you like it, love?” He asks quietly. Dev is asleep against Niall’s shoulder in the backseat, and Niall is taking selfies with his unconscious boyfriend.

“It was brilliant.” I whisper enthusiastically, and I know I’m smiling so hard my cheeks are pushing up into my eyes. “ _You_ were brilliant. I loved it, Baz. I love _you_.”

I’m just past buzzed, filled with too many gooey feelings and it’s spilling out of my mouth uncontrollably. My words are slurring a bit. I must look a mess. There’s sweat dried on my skin, and my hair is a frizzy mess with specks of inexplicable glitter in it. (There was _a lot_ of glitter in that place.) There’s a smudge of dark lipstick on my cheek because Niall is affectionate when he gets tipsy. Baz is looking at me like I’m made of all the good things in the world, eyelids drooping attractively.

“I love you too, Simon.”

The rest of the drive and the stumbling, hushed journey through Pitch Manor up to Baz’s room is a sleepy blur. We make sure Dev and Niall are safe inside their room across the hall, and I’ve already stripped down to my pants and collapsed face first onto Baz’s obscenely large bed before he’s even done getting his suit off.

That is something I wanted to do myself. One of the biggest things I’ve been thinking tonight is how badly I wanted him out of that suit, even if he did look lovely in it. But my limbs feel impossibly heavy and sleep is so close I can’t even imagine rolling over to sleep on my back, much less getting up to ravish my boyfriend. It’ll have to wait until morning.

Vaguely, I hear Baz move about the room, getting ready for bed. I hear him go through his nightly routine in the bathroom, and a few minutes later he’s crawling into bed beside me, drawing the covers up to his head. I hang onto consciousness just long enough to register him dropping a cool, minty kiss on my temple before I’m gone.

I sleep like the dead until a small, insistent little finger pokes me repeatedly in the cheek until I open my eyes.

Two pairs of dark, curious eyes stare back at me, and I startle fully awake, jerking backwards. The twins giggle, still in their pyjamas, just barely able to peek over the side of the bed.

“Wake up,” Acantha says, drumming her hands impatiently on the bedspread. “Mummy is making eggs and cinnamon buns!”

I chuckle and sit up, pulling a sheet up to cover my bare chest. Through a crack in the deep red velvet drapes over the window, I can see morning light spilling in and hear the far-off sounds of activity happening in the rest of the house.

“Eggs and cinnamon buns, you say? That does sound tempting.” I grin at them, and my stomach gives a resounding growl, making the twins giggle again.

There’s a deep, tired moan from beneath the pile of blankets beside me, inciting yet another round of giggling from the twins. There’s no visible sign of Baz underneath all the pillows and blankets, but I can still hear his muffled annoyance.

“Girls, you’re supposed to _knock_.” He grumbles.

“Mum told us to come and get you for breakfast! There’s _cinnamon buns_ , Basil.” Ophelia says, not a bit apologetic.

I nudge Baz’s leg under the covers with mine, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. “Yeah, _Basil_. Cinnamon buns.”

Another protesting groan from the pile of blankets. I glance over at the twins and give them a sneaky wink.

“Your brother might need a bit more convincing.” I tell them seriously. Acantha covers her mouth to try and stifle the laughter that spills out as I help her sister up onto the bed and then her.

“He’s an absolute sloth in the morning, girls. But it would be a real shame for him to miss out on breakfast.”

That’s all the prompting they need. The two of them pounce on Baz without hesitation, knocking pillows out of the way and throwing off blankets to get to their brother.

Baz lets out a startled squawk as his sisters descend upon him, all painfully jabby elbows and shrieking laughter and small, tickling hands. I dodge out of the way of Baz’s flailing arm and slip out of bed to throw on some clothes.

I wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom, listening to the entertaining sounds of Baz’s struggling.

“Ophelia, stop tickling me! Ow! Acantha, no biting! You are both absolute menaces—! Simon! You traitorous oaf!” He hollers, trying in vain to wrangle the twins as they attempt to literally drag him out of bed by his legs.

I lean casually against the ornate bedpost and smirk at the scene. The girls have gotten Baz to the edge of the bed now and allow him to stand up and get his bearings while they perch on the edge, cackling with childish glee. He takes a moment to attempt to smooth his bedhead down with no result, and then whirls on his heel and starts for the girls with a murderous look, hands out to grab them.

Now they shriek in terror and scramble back on the bed towards the other side, barely managing to escape Baz’s wrath for long enough to tumble off the bed and run back around to hide behind my legs, peeking out only to laugh at Baz and then duck away when he scowls at them.

I am doing no better at containing my laughter at his rumpled state, and he makes it clear he’s not amused with a positively scathing glare that would be much more intimidating if his hair wasn’t sticking out in every direction around his head.

“I’m eating _all_ the cinnamon buns, if I can help it.” He threatens darkly. His expression is still scary, but he’s starting to smile behind it. “You’d better get downstairs before I do.”

“Run! Go!” I encourage, and the girls rush out of the room to go protect their breakfast.

“Mum said it’ll be ready in fifteen minutes!” Ophelia shouts in a hurry.

When the door shuts behind them, Baz turns on me with another murderous look undercut by his obvious amusement. He points a long finger at me and pretends to scowl.

“You’re dead to me, Salisbury.”

“Oh no. However will I make it up to you, darling?” I deadpan and step in front of him to reach up to kiss his twitching cheek, wrapping my arms around his waist. I press my grin into his neck, all warm from sleep and soft against my lips.

“Tell you what, Mr. Salisbury.” He keeps his voice brisk and businesslike, but his hands come up to cup my backside and squeeze in a way that is far from innocent. I let out a surprised, undignified squeak. “Join me for a quick shower and I’ll forgive you.”

“Sounds more than fair, Mr. Pitch.” I say breathlessly.

One slightly longer than normal shower later, and we’re both dressed and downstairs in the dining room again. There’s chilled pitchers of orange juice and a large tray of warm, sticky cinnamon buns and platters of eggs cooked several different ways to go on toast.

The Grimms and the extended Grimms and Dev and Niall are all making themselves plates already. Baz gets pulled into a conversation with his uncle, so I go ahead and fix both our plates. Mine piled high with cinnamon buns and toast and eggs with beans and mushrooms, and his with the same variety, just more moderate portions. I find Dev and Niall, both of them mildly hungover, and nod a good morning to them as I sit down, saving the spot next to me for Baz. I start to ask them how they’re doing as I butter a piece of toast, when a dry throat-clearing sound from behind me catches my attention.

I twist around in my chair and Malcom Grimm is standing there, arms clasped politely behind his back, wearing clothes that to me are too perfectly ironed and posh for just eating breakfast in his own house. Baz told me that breakfast would be much more casual than last night’s formal dinner but now my trackies and plain tee shirt feel completely inadequate. At least these are a pair of my nicer trackies. And my shirt is clean and doesn’t have any holes or tears.

“Oh, uh—good—good morning, sir.” I inwardly cringe at that damn stutter, and I can feel Dev and Niall watching the exchange sympathetically from across the table, even if they’re pretending they aren’t.

Mr. Grimm’s face doesn’t give anything away. He might as well be one of the marble busts I’ve seen around this house, solemn and unmoving and more than a little unsettling. “Good morning to you as well, Mr. Salisbury. If you would—”

My mouth opens on instinct. “Simon is fine!”

Now one of his white eyebrows raises just the tiniest bit, and I can feel my face burning. “Right. Simon. As I was saying, if you would join me in my study after the meal, I would like to have a word with you regarding your…” His mouth pulls down for a second in an unpleasant frown. “ _Relationship_ with my son.” He says the word _relationship_ like it’s physically painful.

I swallow and feel my throat click in that terrible way it does. All my appetite from moments before has completely vanished, and I feel almost sick with nervousness. Is this the thing fathers are supposed to do? Talk to the romantic partners of their children and scare them to death? Dr. Wellbelove never did this when I was dating Agatha. He was always completely nice to me. I was never called into his study in a mildly threatening way like this before I’d even had breakfast.

“Y-yes, I can—” I swallow again and try to convey confidence. Nonchalance, even. I fail. My voice is a jumbled, uneven mess. “I can do that.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just nods almost robotically and then strides away, not bothering to tell me where his study even is.

I release a tense, held-in breath as I turn back around. Dev and Niall are smiling at me like they pity me, grimacing more than anything else, and I scowl at them. “Shut up.”

“We didn’t say anything—”

“Don’t care. Shut up.” I try to distract myself from everything and shove a cinnamon roll into my mouth. But even its heavenly sweetness can’t completely take my mind away from the spiraling panic beginning to take over.

“Why are we telling Dev to shut up? Not that I don’t approve.” Baz jokes as he slides into the seat beside me, leaning over to kiss my cheek as he sets a tall glass of orange juice in front of me. He takes a sip of tea from a delicate little cup, pinky lifted politely because he’s a posh bastard. Despite his rude awakening, he’s in a good mood. Probably because of what we did in the shower.

No, God, do _not_ think about that right now.

My mouth is full of gooey bread and icing, so I don’t get a chance to say anything before Niall does.

“Your dad just invited Simon to his study to talk about your guys’ _relationship_.” Niall says, drawing out the word relationship in an overexaggerated snobby way.

Baz closes his eyes, the happy look on his face dropping as soon as Niall mentions his father. His hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache. “Oh _excellent_.”

I finish off my cinnamon bun and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “It’ll be fine. He probably just wants to, like, know my intentions. Like Fiona did.” I try to sound less afraid than I actually feel, but he sees right through me, giving me an unimpressed look.

“Yes, because that went so well.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll go with you, love. Anything he has to say, he can say to us both.” Baz rests his hand on my thigh to drive home his promise.

Something tense in my shoulders that I hadn’t even noticed was there relaxes when Baz says that, and I smile gratefully at him.

We finish breakfast, and I eat noticeably less than I usually would. I’m still hungry, but I don’t eat to my full potential. Even with Baz by my side, I still know this chat with his dad is going to be nerve-wracking.

Once plates are clear and mugs are empty, Baz takes my hand and leads me out of the dining room and down two hallways on the first floor until we get to a pair of French doors, one of which is already open. Baz reaches up and knocks twice on the doorframe anyway, and his father’s measured voice calls from within.

“Come in.”

Baz doesn’t let go of my hand as we enter. Mr. Grimm’s study is a testament to old money and masculinity. Everything is dark polished wood. There are shelves on the wall full of antique leather-bound books and there’s one section that’s just crystal decanters of amber liquor. There’s a big wooden desk facing the door, framed from behind by a big window that looks out over the snow-covered garden outside. There are two high-backed leather chairs placed in front of the desk, and a small table between them with a fancy chess set displayed on top. Baz’s dad is sat behind the desk in a leather office chair, elbows resting on the desk. He looks over his steepled fingers at us and frowns.

“Basil, I wanted to speak to Simon alone.” He says disapprovingly.

“No, I think I’ll sit in.” Baz insists almost snidely.

I can tell by the quick raise of Mr. Grimm’s eyebrows that he’s not used to Baz talking to him like that, but he doesn’t argue.

“Fine. Take a seat, then.” He gestures to the chairs in front of the desk. Baz tugs me forward and we each sit down. He has to let go of my hand then, and I miss the grounding contact immediately. I put my hands in my lap and try not to fidget. Baz and his father are in some kind of staring match. Neither of them have broken each other’s gaze since we came into the room, and neither of them look like they want to concede.

After a few awkward, tense moments, I dare to gently clear my throat and then immediately regret it when Mr. Grimm finally breaks eye contact with his son to turn his terrifying gaze on me. He has about as threatening of a stare as Fiona, except he doesn’t emote nearly as much as her. I can’t tell what he’s thinking as he pins me under his gaze, but it makes me feel as insecure and worried as I did when I first met Baz and didn’t know if he liked me or not.

He opens his mouth, and this stupid part of my brain thinks he’s going to ask me what my intentions are with his son, but instead he blindsides me with something much worse.

“Simon. I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t approve of you. I’m sure you’re a fine young man, but you aren’t what I want for my son.”

I know my mouth is hanging open moronically, but I can’t possibly close it. All the colour has drained from my face and there’s this terrible tightness in my throat like I might cry. God, I hope I don’t cry. Is this a nightmare? Did I really wake up this morning and then walk into this?

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, fight against the tears that want to form in my eyes. I try to say something, but all that comes out is a dry, cracked, “Um—”

Baz cuts me off, and his words are venomous. His teeth flash as he snarls at his father, and I suddenly feel like this argument isn’t necessarily about me. We’re in familiar territory and I’m just along for the ride.

“You don’t even _know_ him! At least Daphne has made the effort to come to London and meet him. You’ve just sat up here and stewed in your bigotry—”

“ _Basilton_. Do not take that tone with me. You know my feelings on this matter. Simon can stay for the rest of this visit but after that I think it would be best if he didn’t come back with you again.”

Baz’s mouth audibly clicks shut, and his eyes are cold steel. “Fine. Then I won’t be back either.”

“Baz—” I start to say.

Mr. Grimm frowns deeply. “Basil—"

“No. If you can’t accept Simon—if you can’t accept _me_ —then it’s all or nothing.” Baz declares. They fall into another staring match, but this one is more glaring than anything else. My heart sinks into my stomach. I don’t want to drive a wedge between Baz and his family like this. He loves his siblings and his stepmother, and no matter how much tension there is between him and his father, I know Baz cares about him too.

I take a deep breath and try to gather my courage as they both seethe at each other. “Mr. Grimm, can I say something?”

Once again, his eyes snap over to me and the distaste held within them hits me like a slap to the face. He doesn’t say anything though, so I buckle down and carry on.

“Sir, I care very deeply about your son. I’m in love with him, actually.” I can feel my cheeks flush. “He’s everything in the world to me, and I would never do anything to hurt him in any way. I know you don’t, um, approve of me, but I promise you that I try every day to do right by Baz.” My face feels like it’s on fire, but when I dare to glance away from Mr. Grimm, I see Baz, _my_ Baz, teary-eyed and smiling at my side. I can’t help but smile back at him, just as watery and lovesick.

His father makes the brief light feeling in my chest turn to lead again two seconds later. “Mr. Salisbury, I’m sure you care very much about Basil, but that doesn’t change the fact that I disapprove of your…relationship.” He says the word like it makes him sick. His voice is cold and clipped and awful.

“My son knows how I feel about his unfortunate preferences, and I have nothing else to say on the matter.”

I see Baz’s strong façade break for a moment, and his shoulders curl in on themselves a bit, his head drops a few centimeters. I can tell that whatever fire was fueling his arguement a few moments ago has died down now in the face of his father’s blatant contempt for who he is.

And now? Now _I’m_ angry. I just opened up my heart for this man, told him that I love and cherish his son, and he just dismissed me like it’s nothing. He’s looking at me like he’s mildly disgusted. Like me and my feelings, like _Baz’s_ feelings—Baz’s _identity_ —are something to be ashamed of.

Before I can stop myself, I’m standing up and bracing my hands on the edge of the desk to lean menacingly over Malcom Grimm. I know I’m losing my temper. I know I’m probably ruining any miniscule chance I had at getting this man’s approval and respect, but fuck this. Fuck _him_. The odds were stacked against me in his mind before I even set foot in this house. Baz came out to this bastard when he was a teenager and the man _still_ hasn’t gotten with the bloody program.

So I get up in Baz’s father’s face and go off in a much different way than I’m used to. For once, my stuttering and my perpetual loss for words is shoved aside by my rage. I take a page out of Penny’s book and go into a rant.

“Now listen here you homophobic wanker,” I growl, hands curling into fists on the desk as I loom over Mr. Grimm. “Baz Pitch is the best person I know. He’s infuriatingly brilliant at literally everything he does, he’s the fittest bloke I’ve ever seen, he’s unbelievably kind and smart and funny, and it’s a fucking miracle he’s turned out as wonderful as he is with a right arsehole like _you_ for a father!” My voice is turning into a roar by the end of the sentence, so I take a breath and try to reel myself in just a bit.

I don’t stop to enjoy the shocked, speechless state of Malcom as he stares mutely up at me from his desk chair, I’m on a roll. My whole body is trembling with fury and emotion. My arms are straining against the instinct to flail around wildly as I speak.

“He’s also the gayest person I’ve ever met in my life, and my foster mum is a goat-farming lesbian! You can’t just cut out or ignore that part of him; it’s who he is, and it’s not fucking ‘unfortunate.’ The only unfortunate thing here is _you_ and your shitty attitude!

“He’s gay, and I’m in love with him, and he’s in love with me too. Baz is a fucking amazing person, every single part of him is perfect. And if you can’t get past your own stupid prejudices and accept him for who he is, then frankly, you don’t deserve him!” I slam my hands down on the desk to punctuate my final word, chest heaving after shouting so much. Then I spin around on my heel and stomp out of the room before I burst into overwhelmed tears.

“I’ll be outside, I need to cool off.” I say to Baz, shutting the door sharply behind me.

**Baz**

The slam of the door rings in the silence for a long moment. My father is still shellshocked, leaning back in his chair and looking rather peaky. I don’t even try to keep the wide, awestruck smile off my face.

I quietly stand up and straighten my shirt, dust my hands off on my trouser legs. I meet my father’s eyes with a cool indifference I finally feel for the first time ever.

“That man is the love of my life.” I say quietly, honestly, plainly. I don’t even think I’m saying it to him. It’s just something I’m saying. Words that need to be put out into the universe.

He can barely manage a small, shaky nod in response.

I leave the room without another word and hurry off to find my boyfriend and snog the life out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya'll! Happy New Year! Sorry I haven't updated since Thanksgiving! Work and the holidays have had me all tangled up in commitments but here we are! If you haven't noticed, I have finally set a number of chapters for this fic, and this chapter is the second to last one! Almost finished!  
> This is the first big multi-chaptered fic I've ever written, and I can't tell you how humbled and grateful I am at the positive response and support I've received from so many of you lovely readers. It's really gratifying and inspiring and I'm definitely going to write more multi-chaptered AU's in the future.  
> Your support and patience during my, ahem, longer update periods is much appreciated. I think the last chapter of He's A Knockout will be done and posted before Valentine's Day at the very latest. I've got a lot of loose ends to tie up so it'll be a long one for sure.  
> In the meantime, I hope ya'll enjoy this chapter! I had fun writing it >:3 Comments and kudos appreciated! Talk to you again soon.


	40. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gets a very important letter.

**Simon**

It’s mid-January. Arguably, the most boring time of the year. Christmas and New Year’s is over, and the closest thing to another holiday is Valentine’s Day—which, shit, I should really plan something romantic for Baz and I to celebrate.

It should be boring, with everyone settling back into everyday routine, but this year is _different_. Ever since I filled out that application and that letter came in the mail, ever since this week’s therapy session, _I’ve_ felt different. Hell, ever since I started therapy, I’ve felt different. Lighter. Better. Hopeful.

I’ve been doing weekly therapy sessions for months now. God, if I could go back in time and knock some sense into broken, angry teenaged me and make him go to therapy, I would. Henry agrees. He’s been insufferable about how going to therapy has been good for me.

“You’ve been making me see a therapist since I was six! And you never once thought it would be good for someone like you, who went through the same things I did. Really, Simon.”

Henry and I made it so our different therapy appointments line up on the same day of the week, one after the other on Friday afternoons. I pick him up from school and mess around on my phone for forty-five minutes in a generic waiting room while he talks to his therapist, and then he comes with me and does his homework in a different waiting room while I talk to my therapist. And after we get ice cream. It’s usually the best day of the week.

It’s incredible, what talking to a mental health professional can do for someone like me, who held all my trauma and fear and self-loathing inside myself for _years_. Who only let it out through my fists, through going off—hurting myself and other people just to let go for a short time.

I completely dreaded those first few appointments with Dr. Sandy. Talking about everything hurt, and I thought it would completely break me. It felt like reopening a wound, like tearing something ugly and painful out of me very slowly. It still does sometimes but sorting out all the things in my head is so freeing. I feel like I’d been carrying around all this weight for years and now I’m slowly unloading it, stone by stone. I feel like I’m replacing that weight with hope. Hope in the future, hope in myself.

Dr. Sandy says I have post-traumatic stress disorder. And that the anxiousness and fear I feel come along with it. I told her that that made sense. We started tackling the self-hatred stuff first, because she said that to start feeling better and manage my emotional state, I need to be kinder to myself.

So I’ve been trying to do that. I haven’t gone back to the ring since Davy showed up there. Every day that I come home and Ebb doesn’t see blood and cuts on my knuckles, she smiles. I know Baz has noticed too. He’s mostly stopped inspecting me for cuts and bruises when we’re alone.

And while I wouldn’t say that I believe in myself all that much, I have started to…hope. Like with the application. And hoping against hope that the letter I got back would be good news.

It was.

The letter is an acceptance letter and when I got it in the post my hands were shaking so badly, and my eyes were already watering so much that it took me a few minutes to calm down and work up the nerve to actually open the damn thing. Henry thought I was going mad. Then when I finally opened the letter, I did cry, but it wasn’t for the reason you’d think. And when I scooped Henry up into a full-body hug and spun him around like a doll he definitely thought I was mad.

I know that an acceptance letter to a culinary school here in London isn’t a huge thing to get worked up over, but it is for me.

The only person who knows about the application and subsequent acceptance are Ebb and Henry and Dr. Sandy. I haven’t told Penny or Agatha yet. I want to tell Baz first. I’ll tell the others tomorrow at work when I ask Miss Possibelf for part time hours. My first term starts in a week.

Today is Therapy Day. Henry and I grab hot cocoas instead of ice cream afterwards. I’ve got his school bag thrown over my shoulder as we take the tube back home.

“How many days a week is it again?” He asks, popping the lid off his drink to slurp at the half-melted whipped cream.

“Four. So I’ll have Fridays and weekends free.” I say, standing protectively close to Henry while I also struggle to hold onto a pole to steady myself and safely hold a cup of hot liquid.

“Are you going to have to wear one of those funny white hats and jackets?”

I tilt my head to the side in thought. “Probably.”

“Will you get to bring home what you make?”

“Definitely.” I smile down at him.

“Nice.” Henry seems pleased with that. He thankfully puts the lid back on his drink as we come to our stop. I keep a firm grip on his hand as we follow the rush of people out of the station. From here, it’s just a short walk to our building.

“I’m staying over at Baz’s tonight, but I’ll be back tomorrow to help you with that science project. You excited for the science fair?” I ask, knowing that he absolutely is.

He proves me right, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah! I’m going have the best solar system diorama there. The planets are actually going to move in their orbits, and I was going to use magnet marbles as asteroids.”

Henry joined a science club at his school recently. He’s gotten really involved in it and has even made a few friends with the other kids in the club. He comes home from every after-school meeting with a new story about the energetic discussions he has with other kids about black holes and solar flares and whatnot.

We get home and it only takes an hour or so until Ebb gets home from work. I start dinner and watch Henry make neat little labels for his diorama, and then I hug him and Ebb goodbye before heading to Baz’s.

I don’t need to pack an overnight bag. I have a drawer that’s just for my things in Baz’s bedroom, and a place for my toothbrush on his bathroom counter. The only thing I bring with me is the acceptance letter, tucked in my back pocket. I pick up takeout for dinner on the way, and when I get there, I just let myself in and call his name.

“Baz? I’m here!”

He’s sat at his kitchen table, poring over a textbook set on one side with a notebook on the other, where he’s writing down diligent notes in his curly, posh handwriting. He’ll copy them onto his computer later, but he’s told me he remembers the information better when he writes it down first.

He greets me with a distracted hum, not looking up from his work. I don’t take offense. When Baz is doing his classwork like this, it’s best to let him stop on his own terms. And I know as soon as I unpack this food, he’ll snap out of it and engage.

“I got dinner from that place with the dumplings you like.” I sing-song, getting plates and silverware and coming to the unoccupied side of the table with the food. As soon as I open the box with the dumplings, Baz’s head snaps up and he hurries to finish his last note before shutting his books and pushing them aside and reaching for the plate I’ve served for him.

He leans over to me and kisses my cheek. “Thank you, love.”

My mouth is already full of food, so I just smile at him and hum happily. As we eat, Baz tells me about his classes, and how he and Penny have teamed up to study together for their shared literature courses, and I want to pipe up and tell him about the acceptance letter, but he’s so adorably excited about colour-coded flashcards and the merits and disadvantages of my best friend’s note-taking technique that I can’t bring myself to interrupt him.

He won’t admit it, but I know these past few weeks have been difficult for him. Seeing him like this—so animated and genuinely happy—is something I don’t want to steamroll with my own good news.

After I shouted at his father at Christmas, we spent another two days at Pitch Manor. Two days of playing football with Mordelia and letting the twins paint our nails and trying to teach Magnus how to count to one hundred. Two days that were lovely, really, even after my outburst. We spent time with the kids and Fiona and Mrs. Grimm and Niall and Dev and his family, and it was perfectly pleasant.

Its just that Baz’s dad didn’t show his face again while Baz and I were there. He didn’t come to any family meals or activities. Daphne tried to play it off like something with his work had come up, but we all knew what was really going on. Either out of shame or petty anger, he was avoiding Baz and me.

And no matter how much Baz told me it wasn’t my fault, that I was just defending him and all that, I know it’s my fault his father effectively shunned us for the rest of that trip. And he hasn’t reached out to Baz or spoken to him since.

Baz can play at indifference and even gratefulness about the cold shoulder all he wants but I know it hurts.

When Baz found me after my outburst, the rage and adrenaline had worn off and I was spiraling into a bit of a panic because _I called his father a wanker to his face,_ but he just strode up to me and cut off my frantic apology with a kiss that had my whole world spinning like a top. Then he told me that I was the fittest man alive and he loved me and then we didn’t talk about much else because of the subsequent snogging.

But no matter what Baz feels about me, I know this tense silence from his father is still bothering him. Daphne has been trying to run interference between the two, but apparently Mr. Grimm is just as stubborn as his son. However, she’s hopeful that her husband will come around and make an effort at some point in the future and insists that no matter what, both Baz and I are welcome in their home, regardless of what Mr. Grimm says.

So Baz has been slightly depressed since Christmas, but I think it’s starting to get better. And if he’s happy to talk about things that make him happy right now, I’m not going to stop him.

Once we’ve eaten, we migrate over to the sofa and I cuddle up close to Baz while he scrolls through our entertainment options. I lay my head on his lap and stare up at him like the idiot in love that I am while he holds the remote in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, complaining about how my affinity for silly action films has ruined his streaming service suggestion algorithms.

“They want me to watch all the _Fast and Furious_ films now, Simon. All because you made me watch _Pacific Rim._ ” He sounds ridiculously horrified.

I snort with laughter and turn my face towards his belly, pressing my nose into the soft material of his posh shirt. “Hey, you liked _Pacific Rim_.”

Baz sniffs and turns to take a dramatic sip of his wine. “That’s besides the point. I refuse to watch any of this ludicrous myriad of car race films.”

We eventually settle on some romantic period drama Baz likes, because I did pick last week’s film. It doesn’t really matter. Whenever I get bored, I end up snogging Baz anyway, and he doesn’t complain much about missing parts of the film while my lips are on his neck if the way he tugs on my hair is any indication.

It’s a perfectly domestic, comfortingly mundane kind of evening. We only watch the one movie before going to bed for the night, and aside from some sweet, slow kisses nothing more heated than that occurs. Baz is in silk pyjama bottoms and one of my old, stretched out tee shirts, so well-worn and washed so many times it’s terribly faded but very soft. I’m in nothing but my pants and we’re curled up in his warm bed with all his extra blankets and pillows. I don’t know how his sheets are so soft. It’s like lying on a cloud that smells like Baz. Cedar and bergamot and a little bit of me mixed in since I sleep here often enough.

He’s propped up against the headboard reading a book while I’m sprawled out on top of him, my head nestled in the crook of his neck and my legs tangled with his. I’m in a place between sleep and awareness, feeling Baz run his fingers over my shoulder blades every once in a while as he reads.

Eventually I hear him close his book and set it aside, drawing me out of my sleepy haze. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a contented sigh, both of his hands on my back now. His long, elegant fingers with their violin-playing callouses trace over the lines of my wing tattoos, the dusty red and dark grey ink in my skin.

“You still haven’t told me about your wings, love.” He murmurs.

I shrug the best I can while curled around him like this. I’m glad he can’t see my face; it makes this easier. “Mmm. I got them when I was seventeen. And I was, uh, going through a lot. I was angry all the time. I hated myself. Got into fights a lot. God, I was such a mess.” I laugh a little humorless laugh and feel Baz’s hands pet down my back firmer than before in comfort. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t see his face, so I don’t know what he’s thinking. I press on. Dr. Sandy is always encouraging me to talk about stuff like this with the people I care about.

“I wanted to feel powerful and untouchable and strong, like a dragon. Was kind of obsessed with dragons back then. So, I went and had this done. I don’t know if it helped anything really. I can’t remember if I felt stronger or not. But it made me feel like I had more control over…everything. Anything. Myself, maybe. I don’t know. It’s dumb, probably.”

I feel Baz shake his head. “No, not dumb. Thank you for telling me, Simon. I’m sorry you went through all that, love.”

“‘S okay. Better now.” The only light in the room is from the soft, tall bedside lamps Baz has on either side of his bed. They cast a warm, gentle golden glow on everything, leaving the rest in hazy, late-night shadow. I’m so comfortable and feel so safe that I can feel myself drifting off on top of Baz, and it makes me smile into the warm skin of his neck where I can feel the beginnings of a beard growing along his jaw.

Baz reaches to his bedside table and uses a little remote to turn off the lamps, and then he gently rolls me off him so he can shift down on his back, and then he pulls me to him again. I shift onto my side and shuffle closer, yawning widely as I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him to my chest this time. He lets me manhandle him into being the little spoon with a disgruntled huff, but I know he loves being the little spoon. I push his long, silky hair out of the way and drop a kiss on the nape of his neck.

“Love you.”

He squeezes my arm where it’s wrapped around him and I feel him relax into me. His voice is this sleepy, loving hum. “Love you, too.”

I close my eyes and it’s quiet for a few minutes, and with my last moments of consciousness I note how nice Baz’s back feels pressed to my chest, and how his socked feet press firmly against mine.

And then I remember what I was supposed to tell him, and my eyes fly open.

**Baz**

You know how sometimes you’re falling asleep and your heart rate drops so quickly that your body panics and makes it rapidly speed up because it thinks you’re dying, and you wake up with a terrible start?

That’s basically what Simon Snow Salisbury does to me right now, as he shoots upright in bed right as I was drifting off and shouts an emphatic, “Fuck!”

Then he’s slipping away from cradling me and scrambling out of bed, immediately tripping over something on the floor in the dark. I hear another, pained, “Fuck!” He probably banged his knee on my dresser, the numpty.

I groan and sit up, begrudgingly turn the lights back on. I see him crouched on the floor, rummaging through the pile of his discarded clothes near the foot of the bed.

“Simon, love, what the hell are you doing?” I rub my eyes exhaustedly, both curious and irritated. I was almost asleep—wrapped in his arms, swaddled in the excessive body heat he gives off naturally. It was heaven in a different way than post-coital cuddling and subsequent sleep are not. We didn’t have sex tonight, neither of us were really wanting to, but this close, comfortable kind of intimacy is nearly just as wonderful.

This evening has been so heart-meltingly domestic and soft. I’ve loved every minute of it. This is the kind of night with Simon that makes me believe I could truly not give a damn if my father never spoke to me again. I wouldn’t trade or give anything up for this.

Still, my boyfriend is acting like a lunatic. He seems to find what he was looking for. From the back pocket of his jeans, he retrieves a folded piece of paper, which he holds up in the air triumphantly as he rises to his feet.

“What—” I try to ask, but then Simon pounces back onto the bed with the energy of a man who couldn’t have been literally falling asleep in my arms a minute and a half ago. He lands with his knees on either side of my thighs, brandishing the paper in front of my face.

“I almost forgot!” He explains, sitting on my legs and handing me the paper proudly, like a golden retriever happily returning a ball I threw for him.

He’s practically glowing, cheeks flushed with excitement and eyes glittering in poorly contained glee. He’s wiggling impatiently on my lap, chewing on his bottom lip and in any other circumstance I’d be, ahem…interested in pursuing something else, but right now I can only muster dry bewilderment.

“What is going on with you? What is this?” I ask, holding up the neatly folded, slightly crumpled square of paper between two fingers.

Simon grins so brightly I wonder why I even bothered turning on the lights. “Read it, Baz!”

I can’t help it—I laugh and lean up and kiss his smiling lips, just because I can. Then I unfold the paper. It’s a typed letter addressed to Simon, printed on fancy cardstock.

I skim over the first paragraph.

_Dear Mr. Salisbury,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted…_

My heart just about stops. I have to do a double take. Then I read the whole thing through with watery eyes brimming with tears of joy. I open my mouth and realize that I’ve clapped my other hand over it in shock. I take it away and look up from the letter at Simon, my mouth hanging open in bafflement like his so often does.

Simon is looking at me like he’s about to burst into tears himself, hands clasped tightly in his lap. I throw my arms around him. The letter goes fluttering to the floor somewhere.

“Oh, Simon, love—this is so wonderful, I’m so happy for you, you have no idea—” I ramble into his ear, squeezing him closer to me.

He’s laughing and hugging me back with all of himself. His arms twine around my shoulders and his legs wrap around my waist.

“I almost forgot to tell you tonight like I wanted, I’m so sorry! I start classes next week, I’m going to train to be a real pastry chef, Baz!”

Simon. My Simon. Going to culinary school, becoming a pastry chef. It’s everything I want for him, it’s what he deserves and I’m so proud and happy for him I’m very nearly crying. Okay fine, I’m crying a little.

I take him by the shoulders and pull away so I can look at his beautiful face, so I can attack it with kisses that make him throw his head back and laugh some more.

“You’re going to be so fucking incredible, love. I can’t wait to see it. Jesus fucking Christ, I love you. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were applying for this!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise! I haven’t even told Penny yet.”

“Can I be there when you do? We should celebrate! You’re so good, you’re only going to get even better, God, I’m so proud of you. We should go shopping for those hideous clunky nonslip chef shoes! You’re going to look so adorable in one of those white coats—” I’m definitely rambling, overflowing with positive emotion in a way I don’t do very often unless a certain mole-speckled man is involved.

Simon’s laughing so hard his whole face is red. “You—you sound like Ebb, calm down.” He takes a deep breath and wipes a few tears from his own face. “Thank you. Y’know, you being there for me helped me be able to even reach for this. To want it. Thank you, Baz.”

I try to pretend that I’m not very chuffed by that and push his curls back from his forehead to kiss his temple. “No need to thank me, love. You did this all on your own. You’re amazing.”

He rolls his eyes, but even as he’s shaking his head, he’s smiling. “You know what? I’m starting to believe that. It’s all going to go to my head.”

“That’s fine. I prefer you when you’re a little insufferable anyway.”

We smile at each other for a moment, eyes locked. His bashful, sideways smile is like a sunrise. It’s every cleansing deep breath I’ve ever had, its sunshine poured into pink lips and stubby, uneven teeth.

I don’t know which of us leans in for the kiss first, but it doesn’t matter. All that does matter is that Simon’s grinning into the kiss and he tastes like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY DONE. THERE. COMPLETED WORK BABEEEY  
> This ending has been a long time coming, I know, but I want to thank you all for sticking with this story to the end. Thank you all so much, seriously. These characters and this story I've put them in mean so much to me, not to get too mushy or anything. To all of you that have made it this far, who have left sweet and encouraging comments and kudos, thank you. I really can't thank you enough for indulging in my little self-indulgent fic.  
> I hope you liked it <3


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